I'NlVu  ,SITY  Of 
CALiFO.iMA 

^    SAN  DiEGO    J 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA.  SAN  DIEGO 


III  II   lllil 

3  1822  00649  1559 


■pi/ 


THE    SONG   OF   THE 
BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 


THE  SONG  OF  THE 
BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 


BY 
JOHANNES  LINNANKOSKI.  r  pse 


^/ 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FINNISH 

BY 

W.  WORSTER,  MA. 


NEW  YORK 

MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY 

1921 


From  the  Finnish. 
Original  Title:  "Laulu  Tulipunaisesta  Kukasta' 

Copyright,  1921, 

BY 

MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 

New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Fairy  of  the  Forest 1 

Gazelle        9 

A  Mother's  Eyes 17 

Father  and  Son        22 

Pansy 27 

At  Sunrise 46 

Rowan 53 

The  First  Snowfall 58 

Daisy 63 

The  Rapids 80 

The  Song  of  the  Blood- Red  Flower 97 

Water- Sprite  and  Water- Witch 105 

The  Camp- Fire  at  Neitokallio 112 

Hawthorn        119 

Sister  Maya 124 

Clematis ".     .  131 

Dark  Furrows 144 

To  the  Dregs 147 

By   the  Roadside 158 

The  Cupboard 162 

V 


vi  CONTENTS 

PACK 

The  House  Building 171 

Ways  that  Meet 178 

Moisio 182 

The  Broken  String 189 

The  Bridal  Chamber 197 

The   Somnambuust       206 

Out  of  the  Past 213 

The   Mark 218 

The  Pilgrimage 227 

The  Reckoning 237 

Waiting 243 

The  Homecoming 249 


THE    SONG    OF    THE 
BLOOD-RED    FLOWER 


THE   SONG   OF 
THE   BLOOD-RED   FLOWER 

THE  FAIRY  OF  THE  FOREST 

THE  setting  sun  shone  on  the  wooded  slopes  of  the 
hill.     He  clasped  the  nearest  trees  in  a  burning 
embrace,  offered  his  hand  to  those  farther  off,  and 
gave  to  them  all  a  sparkling  smile. 

There  was  joy  on  the  hillside. 

The  summer  wind  told  fairy  tales  from  the  south.  Told 
of  the  trees  there,  how  tall  they  are,  how  dense  the  forests, 
and  the  earth,  how  it  steams  in  the  heat.  How  the  people 
are  dark  as  shadows,  and  their  eyes  flashing  with  light. 
And  all  the  trees  in  the  wood  strained  their  ears  to  listen. 

The  cuckoo  perched  in  the  red-blossomed  pine,  near  the 
reddest  cluster  of  all.  "It  may  be  as  lovely  as  lovely  can 
be,"  cuckooed  he,  "but  nowhere  does  the  heart  throb  with 
delight  as  in  Finland  forests  in  spring,  and  nowhere  is  such 
music  in  the  air." 

All  the  hillside  nodded  approvingly. 

In  a  little  glade  half-way  down  the  slope  some  newly- 
felled  firs  lay  tumbled  this  way  and  that — their  red-blos- 
somed tops  were  trembling  still. 

On  one  of  the  stems  a  youth  was  seated. 

He  was  tall  and  slender,  as  the  trees  he  had  just  felled. 

I 


2       SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

His  hat  swung  on  a  twig,  coat  and  waistcoat  were  hung  on 
a  withered  branch.  His  strong  brown  chest  showed  behind 
the  white  of  the  open  shirt;  the  upturned  sleeves  bared  his 
powerful,  sunburnt  arms.  He  sat  leaning  forward,  looking 
at  his  right  arm,  bending  and  stretching  it,  watching  the 
muscles  swell  and  the  sinews  tighten  under  the  skin. 

The  young  man  laughed. 

He  caught  up  his  axe,  held  it  straight  out  at  arm's  length, 
and  flourished  it  gaily. 

"Twenty-five  down  already,  and  the  axe  as  light  as  ever!" 

The  cuckoo  called.  The  young  man  looked  toward  the 
top  of  the  hill.  "A  wonderful  spring,"  he  thought.  "Never 
have  the  trees  flowered  so  blood-red  and  bright,  nor  the 
brook  sung  so  merrily,  nor  the  cuckoo  called  so  near. 
'Twould  be  no  surprise  to  see  the  wood-sprite  herself  come 
out  from  the  trees." 

He  rested  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"Some  say  they  never  come  nowadays,  but  Grandfather, 

he's  seen  them  himself.     They're  grown  shy,  now  that  the 

woods  are  being  cleared." 

"Come,   strawberry    blossom. 
Come,  raspberry  blossom, 
Come,  little  cows, 
It   is   late." 

The  sound  came  from  the  other  side  of  the  hill,  like  a 
tinkle  of  silver  bells  on  a  lonely  winter  road. 

The  young  man's  heart  beat  faster.  He  started  up,  and 
turned  towards  the  sound,  holding  his  breath  to  listen.  But 
he  heard  nothing  more,  save  the  heavy  throbbing  in  his 
breast. 


THE  FAIRY  OF  THE  FOREST  3 

He  took  a  few  steps  forward  and  stopped.  "Will  she 
come  this  way,  or  .  .  ." 

"Come,  summer  star, 

Come,  little  cows, 

Hurry  home." 

It  seemed  quite  close  now,  just  beyond  the  ridge. 

"Coming — she  is  coming  this  way!"  He  hurried  on 
again,  but,  startled  at  his  own  impatience,  stopped  once 
more,  stepped  back,  and  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
crest  of  the  hill. 

Something  golden  shone  through  the  trees,  something  that 
fluttered  in  the  wind.  Below  the  gold  a  white  blouse,  a 
slender  waist,  and  then  a  blue  skirt. 

"The  fairy  of  the  forest!" 

The  girl  was  standing  on  the  hilltop.  She  shaded  her 
eyes,  and  began  walking  toward  the  farther  slope.  What 
now?  He  was  on  the  point  of  racing  after  her,  then  jumped 
on  to  a  tree  stem,  and  put  his  hands  to  his  mouth  as  if  to 
shout.  Suddenly  he  dropped  his  hands  and  stood  irresolute. 
Then  he  jumped  down,  picked  up  his  axe,  mounted  the 
stem  again,  and  looked  at  the  girl  intently. 

"Wait  till  she  gets  to  the  big  fir  yonder;  then  if  she 
doesn't  look  round,  I'll  give  one  blow  of  the  axe  and  see  if 
she'U  hear." 

The  girl  walked  on — the  axe  was  raised.  .  .  . 

"Come,  summer  star   .   .   ." 

She  turned  round,  and  caught  sight  of  him,  started,  and 
stopped,  blushing  as  she  stood. 
"Olof!" 
"Annikki !" 


4       SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

He  sprang  down  and  hastened  toward  the  girl. 

She  too  came  nearer. 

"You  here?  And  never  said  a  wordl  How  you  fright- 
ened me!" 

"I  was  just  going  to  call  when  you  turned  round." 

They  shook  hands,  heartily,  as  comrades. 

"Look!"  he  cried  eagerly;  "isn't  it  just  like  a  palace 
all  round — the  castle  of  Tapio,  and  I'm  the  lord  of  the 
castle,  and  you're  the  forest  fairy,  come  to  visit  me.  And 
your  clothes  smell  of  the  pine  woods,  and  there's  a  scent  of 
birch  in  your  hair,  and  you  come  playing  on  a  shepherd's 
pipe,  music  sweet  as  honey.  .  .  ." 

The  girl  looked  up  in  astonishment.  "What — what  makes 
you  talk  like  that?" 

He  stopped  in  some  perplexity.  "  'Tis  the  forest  talks 
so.     But  now  you  must  come  in — right  in  to  the  palace." 

They  went  through  to  the  middle  of  the  clearing. 

"And  have  you  felled  all  those,  all  by  yourself?"  She 
cast  a  warm  glance  at  his  sunburnt  neck  and  powerful 
shoulders.     "How  strong  you  are!" 

The  boy  stepped  on  more  briskly. 

"There!  Now  we're  in  the  palace.  And  here's  the  seat 
of  honour — isn't  it  fine?  And  here's  a  bench  at  the  side — 
but  a  guest  must  always  have  the  seat  of  honour." 

"And  what  about  the  master  of  the  house?"  asked  the 
girl,  with  a  laugh. 

"He'll  sit  on  the  bench,  of  course," 

They  smiled  at  each  other. 

"And  see,  it's  decked  out  all  ready,  with  sprays  of  green 
and  red  fir  blossoms." 

"Yes,  indeed — a  real  palace.     It's  two  years  now  since 


THE  FAIRY  OF  THE  FOREST  5 

we  had  a  talk  together,  and  now  to  meet  in  a  palace  .  .  .!" 

"We've  not  seen  much  of  each  other,  it's  true,"  said  he, 
with  a  ring  of  remembrance  in  his  voice.  "And  we  used 
to  be  together  whole  summers  in  the  old  days.  Do  you 
remember  how  you  were  mistress  of  the  house,  with  twenty- 
five  milch  cows  in  the  shed,  and  as  many  sheep  as  Jacob 
at  the  end  of  his  last  year's  service?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  remember."  Her  blue  eyes  sparkled,  and 
the  two  young  people's  laughter  echoed  over  the  hillside. 

The  forest  woke  from  his  dreams,  and  stopped  to  listen 
to  the  tale  of  the  children  at  play. 

"And  how  we  played  snowballs  on  the  way  home  from 
school?  And  your  hair  was  all  full  of  snow,  and  I  took 
it  down — do  you  remember? — and  did  it  up  again  in  the 
middle  of  the  road." 

"Yes,  and  did  it  all  wrong;  and  the  others  laughed." 

The  trees  winked  at  one  another  as  if  they  had  never 
heard  such  talk  before. 

"And  the  confirmation  classes  after!"  said  the  girl  warm- 
ly. "Oh,  I  shall  never  forget  that  time — the  lovely  summer 
days,  and  the  shady  birches  near  the  church.  .  .  ." 

The  trees  nodded.  The  house  with  a  cross  on  top — all 
they  had  heard  of  it  was  the  bell  that  rang  there,  and  the 
big  firs  had  wondered  what  it  was.  Now  here  were  human 
beings  themselves  telling  what  went  on  inside. 

"And  you've  grown  up  to  a  great  big  girl  since  then!  It 
seems  so  strange — as  if  you  were  the  same  and  not  the 
same." 

"And  you!"  The  gentle  warmth  of  a  woodland  summer 
played  in  the  girl's  blue  eyes.  "A  tall,  big  woodcutter 
you've  grown." 


6       SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

They  were  silent  for  a  while. 

The  trees  listened  breathlessly. 

A  warm  flood  rose  in  the  young  man's  breast — like  a 
summer  wave  washing  the  sands  of  an  untrodden  shore. 

The  girl's  kerchief  had  fallen  from  her  head.  He  picked 
it  up  and  gave  it  to  her.  Through  the  thin  stuff  their  fingers 
touched;  the  youth  felt  a  thrill  in  every  limb.  Suddenly 
he  grasped  her  hands,  his  eyes  gazing  ardently  into  hers. 

"Annikki!"  he  whispered.  He  could  find  no  words  for 
the  tumult  in  his  veins.  "Annikki!"  he  gasped  again, 
entreatingly. 

A  faint  flush  had  risen  to  her  cheeks,  but  her  glance  met 
his  calmly  and  frankly.     She  pressed  his  hand  in  answer. 

"More  than  anyone  else  in  all  the  world?"  he  asked 
passionately. 

She  pressed  his  hand  again,  more  warmly  still. 

He  was  filled  with  joy,  yet  somehow  uneasy  and  confused. 
He  wanted  to  say  something — warm,  fervent  words.  Or  do 
something — throw  himself  at  her  feet  and  clasp  her  knees — 
anything.     But  he  dared  not. 

Then  his  eyes  fell  on  one  of  the  treetops  close  by.  He 
slipped  one  hand  free,  and  broke  off  a  cluster  of  blood-red 
flowers. 

"Take  them — will  you?  In  memory  of  how  you  came  to 
the  castle — to  Tapiosborg." 

"Olofsborg,"  she  laughed. 

The  word  broke  the  spell.  They  looked  at  each  other, 
and  again  their  laughter  rang  through  the  woods. 

He  drew  closer  to  her  side,  and  tried  to  fasten  the  red 
flowers  at  her  breast.  But  as  he  bent  down,  his  hair  touched 
hers.     He  felt  it  first  as  a  soft,  secret  caress,  hardly  daring 


THE  FAIRY  OF  THE  FOREST  7 

to  believe  it,  then  it  was  like  a  burning  current  through  his 
body,  that  stayed  tingling  like  fire  in  his  veins.  His  breath 
seemed  to  choke  him,  his  heart  felt  as  if  it  would  burst. 
Passionately  he  threw  his  arms  about  her  and  held  her  close. 

The  girl  blushed.  She  made  no  resistance,  but  hid  her 
troubled  face  against  his  shoulder. 

He  pressed  her  closer.  Through  her  thin  blouse  he  could 
feel  her  blood  burning  against  his  breast.  He  felt  his 
senses  going,  a  painful  weakness  seemed  to  stifle  him,  as  if 
only  a  violent  movement  could  give  him  breath.  Feverishly 
he  clenched  his  left  hand,  that  was  round  her  waist;  with  his 
right  beneath  her  chin  he  raised  her  head, 

"Annikki!"  he  whispered,  his  lips  still  nearer.  "Only 
one.  .  .  ." 

She  drew  away,  shaking  her  head,  and  looked  at  him  re- 
proachfully. 

"How  can  you  ask?  You  know — you  know  it  wouldn't 
be  right." 

"Then  you  don't  care  for  me,  as  you  said!"  he  cried 
passionately,  as  if  accusing  her  of  faithlessness. 

The  girl  burst  into  tears,  her  slight  shoulders  quivering. 
The  cluster  of  flowers  fell  to  the  ground. 

"My  flowers  .  .  ."  she  cried. 

A  flush  of  shame  burned  in  the  young  man's  cheek.  As 
if  stricken  powerless,  his  hands  loosed  their  hold,  and  he  set 
the  girl  doun  by  his  side. 

She  was  trembling  still.  He  gazed  at  her  helplessly,  as 
one  who  has  done  wrong  without  intent. 

"Annikki!"  he  said  imploringly.  "Forgive  me,  Annikki. 
I  don't  know  what  made  me  do  it.  If  you  only  knew  how 
sorry  I  am." 


8       SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

The  girl  looked  up,  smiling  through  her  tears.  "I  know 
— I  know  you  would  never  try  to  tiurt  me." 

"And  you'll  be  just  the  same  now — as  if  nothing  had 
happened — will  you?" 

He  took  her  hand,  and  his  eyes  sought  hers.  And  trust- 
ingly she  gave  him  both. 

"May  I  put  them  there  again?"  he  asked  shyly,  picking 
up  the  flowers  from  the  ground. 

The  girl  laughed ;  the  blossom  laughed. 

"And  then  I  must  go — mother  is  waiting." 

"Must  you?" 

They  rose  to  their  feet,  and  he  fastened  the  blossoms  at 
her  breast. 

"How  good  you  are!"  he  said,  with  a  sense  of  un- 
speakable joy  and  thankfulness. 

"And  you  too.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  Olof." 

"Good-bye— fairy!" 

He  stood  in  the  clearing,  watching  her  as  she  went,  till 
the  last  glimpse  of  her  had  vanished  between  the  trees. 

She  turned  round  once,  and  the  red  flowers  in  her  white 
blouse  burned  like  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun  on  a  white 
cloud. 

"I'll  fell  no  more  to-day,"  said  the  youth,  and  sat  do\vn 
on  a  fallen  tree,  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 


GAZELLE 

"My  love  is  like  a  strawberry  sweet, 
Strawberry   sweet,  strawberry  sweet. 
I'll  dance  with  her  when  next  we  meet. 
Next  we  meet,  next  we  meetl" 

THE  song  came  as  a  welcome  from  the  pla>ang-fields 
of  the  v-illage  as  Olof  climbed  the  hill;  it  lightened 
his  step,  forcing  him  to  keep  time. 

Even  the  trees  around  seemed  waving  to  the  tune;  the 
girls'  thin  simamer  dresses  fluttered,  and  here  and  there  gay 
ribbons  in  their  hair. 

"Come  in  the  ring,  Olof,  come  in  the  ring!" 

Some  of  the  girls  broke  the  chain,  and  offered  their  hands. 

There  was  Sunday  merriment  in  the  air,  and  all  were 
intoxicated  with  spring.  The  stream  flowed  glittering 
through  the  fields,  with  a  shimmer  of  heat  above.  The 
dancers  quickened  their  pace  almost  to  a  run.  The  lads 
had  pushed  their  hats  back,  the  sweat  stood  in  beads  on 
their  foreheads;  the  girls  smiled  with  bright  eyes,  dimpled 
cheeks  a-quiver,  and  heaving  breast. 

"My  love  is  like  a  cranberry  fair, 
A  cranberry  fair,  a  cranberry  fair. 
For  none  but  me  she'll  ever  care. 
She'll  ever  care,  and  ever  care." 

"Oh,   it's   too  hot — ^let's   try   another   game!"    cried   one. 
"Let's  play  last  man  out — that  gives  you  time  to  breathe." 
"Yes — yes.     Here's  my  partner!" 

9 


10     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

The  chain  broke  up,  and  the  new  game  began, 

"And  I'm  last  man — go  on.  We'll  soon  find  another. 
Last  man  out!" 

They  raced  away  on  either  side,  the  last  man  between.  It 
was  the  very  place  for  this  game,  a  gentle  slope  every  way. 
The  last  man  had  no  easy  task,  for  the  couples  agreed,  and 
tried  hard  to  join  again. 

"Full  speed,  that's  the  way!"  cried  the  lookers-on.  And 
the  last  man  put  on  the  pace,  rushed  towards  the  meeting- 
point  like  a  whirlwind,  and  reached  it  in  time.  The  girl 
swung  round  and  dashed  off  to  the  left,  but  made  too  short 
a  turn,  and  was  caught. 

The  game  went  on,  growing  fast  and  furious.  All  were 
in  high  spirits,  ready  to  laugh  at  the  slightest  thing;  every 
little  unexpected  turn  and  twist  was  greeted  \\ith  shouts  of 
glee. 

Olof  was  last  man  now.  He  stood  ready  in  front  of  the 
row,  glancing  to  either  side. 

"Last  pair  off!" 

The  last  two  were  ill-matched;  a  big  broad-shouldered 
ditcher,  and  a  little  slender  girl  of  barely  seventeen. 

The  man  lumbered  off  in  a  wide  curve,  the  girl  shot  away 
like  a  weasel,  almost  straight  ahead,  her  red  bodice  like  a 
streak  of  flame  and  her  short  plait  straight  out  ahead. 

"That's  it — ^that's  the  way!"  cried  the  rest. 

The  girl  ran  straight  ahead  at  first,  Olof  hardly  gaining 
on  her  at  all.  Then  she  tried  a  zigzag  across  the  grass. 
Olof  took  short  cuts,  increasing  his  pace  and  was  almost  at 
her  heels. 

"Now,  now!"  cried  the  others  behind. 

The  girl  gave  a  swift  glance  round,   saw  her  pursuer 


GAZELLE  11 

already  stretching  out  his  hand,  and  broke  away  suddenly 
to  one  side. 

Olof  slipped,  and  went  down  full  length  on  the  grass. 

The  girl's  eyes  twinkled  mischievously,  and  a  shout  of 
laughter  came  from  the  rest. 

Olof  would  have  been  furious,  but  he  paid  no  heed  to  the 
laughter  now,  having  just  at  that  moment  noticed  something 
else.  The  girl's  glance  as  she  turned — heavens,  what  eyes! 
And  he  had  never  noticed  her  before.  .  .  . 

He  sprang  up  like  a  rocket  and  continued  the  pursuit. 

The  broad-shouldered  partner  was  making  hopeless 
efforts  from  the  other  side  of  the  course.  "Don't  waste 
your  breath!"  cried  the  men.     "He's  got  her  now." 

The  big  fellow  stopped,  and  waited  calmly  for  the  end. 

But  it  was  not  over  yet.  Olof  was  gaining  steadily  on 
the  girl;  turn  which  way  she  pleased,  he  would  have  her 
now. 

She  saw  the  danger,  and  turned  to  rush  down  the  slope. 
But,  in  turning,  one  of  her  shoes  came  loose,  and  was  flung 
high   in   air. 

A  shout  of  delight  went  up  from  the  playground  in  the 
rear. 

The  girl  stopped,  at  a  loss  now  what  to  do.  Olof,  too, 
forgot  the  pursuit,  and  stood  watching  the  shoe;  then  sud- 
denly he  sprang  forward  and  caught  it  in  the  air  as  it  fell. 

A  fresh  burst  of  applause  came  from  the  lookers-on. 
"Bravo,  bravo,  that's  the  way!" 

"Go  on,  go  on!  Never  mind  about  the  shoe!"  cried  some 
of  the  girls,  to  urge  her  on. 

She  dashed  off  again,  Olof  after  her  with  the  shoe  in  his 
hand. 


12     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

The  chase  was  worth  looking  at  now;  no  ordinary  game 
this,  but  a  contest,  with  victory  or  defeat  at  stake.  The 
spectators  were  wild  with  excitement,  taking  sides  for  one 
or  other  of  the  two. 

The  girl  shot  this  way  and  that,  like  a  shuttle  in  a  loom, 
her  slender  body  gracefully  bent,  her  head  thrown  back 
defiantly.  Her  plait  had  come  loose,  and  the  hair  streamed 
out  behind  her  like  a  tawny  mane.  A  glimpse  of  a  red 
stocking  showed  now  and  again  beneath  her  dress. 

For  Olof,  too,  it  had  ceased  to  be  a  game.  She  was  no 
longer  one  of  a  couple  he  had  to  part,  but  a  creature  he 
must  tame — a  young  wild  foal  with  sparkling  eyes  and 
golden  mane. 

They  reached  the  edge  of  the  course;  only  a  few  feet  now 
between   them. 

At  last!  thought  Olof,  holding  himself  in  readiness  for 
her  next  turn  up  the  slope. 

But  again  she  turned  off  downward.  And  as  she  wheeled 
about,  Olof  again  was  aware  of  something  he  had  not 
marked  before — the  curve  of  her  hips,  her  lithe,  supple 
waist,  and  the  splendid  poise  of  her  head.  He  was  so  close 
now  that  her  hair  touched  his  face — touched  it,  or  was  it 
only  the  air  as  it  flew  past  his  cheek?  And  from  her  eyes 
shot  beams  of  light,  challenging,  beckoning,  urging  him  on. 

Gazelle!  The  word  flashed  into  his  mind — a  picture 
from  some  book  he  had  once  read.  The  eyes,  the  lightfoot 
swiftness — yes,  a  gazelle.  He  shouted  the  word  aloud, 
victoriously,  as  he  raced  after  her  like  one  possessed. 

She  sprang  aside,  and  darted  up  a  little  hill  just  beyond 
the  course. 


GAZELLE  13 

"Look,  look!"  cried  the  rest.  It  was  like  running  dowoi 
a  hare. 

A  glimpse  of  a  red  stocking  up  on  the  crest  of  the  mound, 
and  the  hunted  creature  vanished  on  the  farther  side,  the 
hunter  after  her. 

The  final  heat  was  but  short.  The  girl  was  wear}dng 
already,  and  had  made  for  the  shelter  of  the  hill  on  purpose 
to  avoid  being  caught  in  sight  of  the  rest.  Olof  tore  madly 
down  the  slope.  The  girl  gave  one  glance  round,  turned 
vaguely  with  an  instinct  of  defence;  next  moment  she  felt 
Olof's  two  hands  grasping  her  waist. 

"You — gazelle!"  he  shouted  triumphantly.  But  the  pace 
was  too  hot  for  a  sudden  stop;  they  lost  their  balance,  and 
came  down  together,  breast  to  breast  and  eye  to  eye,  rolling 
over  on  the  slope. 

It  was  all  like  a  dream  to  Olof — he  hardly  knew  what 
had  happened.  Only  that  the  girl  was  lying  there  across 
his  breast,  with  her  loosened  hair  streaming  over  his  face. 
It  was  like  a  caress  in  pajTnent  for  his  exertions,  and  it 
almost  stifled  him.  Still  holding  her,  he  looked  into  her 
flushed  face,  into  her  wonderful  eyes — Gazelle!  He  felt 
like  sinking  off  to  sleep,  to  dream  it  over  again,  the  charm 
and  wonder  of  it  all  .  .  . 

"Oh,  but  come!     The  others  .  .  ." 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  confusion,  and  loosed  their 
hold,  but  were  still  so  agitated  they  could  hardly  rise.  Olof 
handed   her  the  shoe. 

"Quick — put  it  on,  and  we'll  go  back." 

She  put  on  her  shoe,  but  stood  still,  as  if  unable  to  move. 

Olof  flushed  angrily.  He  was  vexed  at  his  own  con- 
fusion, and  with  the  girl  as  well. 


14     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"Come!"  he  said  commandingly,  and  gave  her  his  hand. 
"We  must  ruB." 

Shouts  of  applause  greeted  them  as  they  appeared  hand 
in  hand  in  sight  of  the  rest. 

As  they  came  up,  Olof  felt  his  senses  in  a  whirl  once 
more,  and  clenched  his  teeth  in  an  effort  to  appear  un- 
concerned. 

"Well  run,  well  run!"  cried  the  others. 

"Ha  ha,  Olof,  you  got  the  shoe,  and  the  owner,  too — but 
it's  made  you  fine  and  red." 

"Enough  to  make  anyone  red,"  gasped  Olof  shortly. 

"Now,  on  again!     Last  man  out  .  .  ." 

"No,  no — don't  spoil  it  now.  We  shan't  get  another 
run  like  that." 

"Yes,  tliat's  enough  for  to-day."  Olof's  eyes  shone,  and 
he  stole  a  glance  at  the  gazelle. 

"But  we  must  have  a  dance  before  we  go,"  cried  the  girls. 

"A  dance,  then." 

"What  do  they  mean,  the  two  little  stars. 

That  shine  in  the  sky  so  clearly? 
That  a  boy  and  a  girl,  a  youth  and  a  maid, 
They  love  each  other  dearly." 

"'Tis  a  pretty  song,"  thought  Olof,  and  pressed  the  girl's 
hand  unconsciously,  and  she  did  not  loose  her  hold.  Then 
someone  led  Olof  into  the  ring. 

"What  do  they  mean,  the  four  little  stars, 
That  shine  so  bright  in  the  sky? 
That  I  give  my  hand  to  my  own  true  love, 
And  bid  the  rest  good-bye." 

"I've  never  given  a  thought  to  the  words  before,"  thought 
Olof  again,  and  offered  his  hand  to  Gazelle. 


GAZELLE  15 

"What  do  they  mean,  the  bright  little  stars, 
That  shine  and  sparkle  above? 
That  hope  and  longing  are  part  of  life, 
And  the  rest  of  life  is  love." 

"All  very  well,"  said  someone,  vnth  a  laugh,  "but  we  must 
be  getting  home.     Some  of  us  have  a  long  way  to  go." 

"Don't  break  up  the  party.  We'll  all  go  together.  One 
more  round  first — the  last." 

"Never  shall  I  leave  my  love, 

Never  shall  we  part. 
Rocks  may  fall,  and  trees  may  fall, 
And  the  dark  sea  come  and  cover  all, 
But  never  shall  we  part." 

"Well,  we  must  part  some  time — you  can  cry  if  you  like. 
Good-bye,^  good-bye." 

And  they  shook  hands  all  round. 

Olof  turned  toward  the  girls,  where  they  stood  in  a  group, 
but  was  checked  by  a  glance  from  two  deep,  honest  blue  eyes 
— the  fair>'  of  the  forest!  Her  glance  was  clear  and  serene 
as  before,  but  there  was  something  in  it  that  pierced  him 
like  a  steel.  He  felt  suddenly  guilty,  and  turned  pale.  He 
could  not  move,  but  stood  there  fixed  by  the  glance  of  those 
blue  eyes. 

He  could  not  stand  there  like  that.  He  raised  his  head 
to  look  at  the  fairy  girl,  but  his  glance  filmed  aside,  and  met 
another's  eyes.  These  two  looked  at  him,  questioning,  won- 
dering. And  they  sent  forth  such  a  stream  of  clear  and 
sparkling  light  that  all  else  seemed  to  vanish,  and  the  blood 
rushed  to  his  cheeks. 

"Good-night."  He  raised  his  hat  to  the  girls,  and  tiuned 
his  back. 


16     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

The  party  broke  up,  all  going  their  several  ways. 

"Never  shall  I  leave  my  love, 
Never  shall  we  part,  .  .  ." 

Some  of  the  young  men  had  crossed  the  stream  already, 
and  were  singing  as  they  went.  Olof  walked  up  the  hill 
towards  his  home. 

Never  shall  we  part    .  .  ." 

— he  took  up  the  words  half  aloud,  and  his  face  was  set  in 
a  strange  expression  of  resolution  and  eager,  almost  fierce, 
delight. 


m 


A  MOTHER'S  EYES 

THE  warm,  soft  twilight  of  a  spring  night  filled  the 
room.  And  all  was  still. 
"Oh,  I  have  waited  for  you  so!"  whispered  the 
girl,  flinging  her  arms  round  her  lover's  neck.  "I  was  so 
afraid  you  would  not  come — that  something  might  have 
happened.    .    .    ." 

"And  what  could  happen,  and  who  could  keep  me  from 
coming  to  you?  But  I  could  not  come  before — I  don't 
know  what  it  was  made  mother  stay  up  so  late  to-night." 

"Do  you  think  she  .  .  ."  began  the  girl.  But  a  pas- 
sionate kiss  closed  her  lips. 

"If  you  only  knew  how  I  have  been  longing  for  you," 
said  he.  "All  day  I've  been  waiting  for  the  evening  to 
come.  I've  thought  of  nothing  else  since  I  first  looked  into 
your  eyes — Gazelle!" 

"Do  you  mean  it,  Olof?"  She  nestled  closer  to  him  as 
she   spoke. 

"And  do  you  know  what  I  was  thinking  as  I  walked 
behind  the  plough  ?  I  wanted  you  to  be  a  tiny  flower,  to  put 
in  my  breast,  so  I  could  see  you  all  the  time.  Or  a  sweet 
apple  I  could  keep  in  my  pocket  and  fondle  secretly — talk 
to  you  and  play  with  you  and  no  one  ever  to  know." 

"How  prettily  you  talk,  Olof!" 

"If  anyone  had  told  me,  I  would  never  have  believed  love 
was  like  this.  It's  all  so  strange.  Do  you  know,  I  want 
to  .  .  ." 

17 


18     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"Yes?     Tell  me!" 

"Crush  you  to  death — like  this!" 

"Oh,  if  I  could  die  like  that — now,  now.  .  .  ." 

"No,  no — but  to  crush  you  slowly,  in  a  long,  long  kiss." 

The  twilight  quivered  in  the  room.     And  all  was  still. 

A  sound,  a  creaking  noise  as  of  a  door  in  the  next  room 
opening. 

Two  heads  were  raised  from  the  pillow,  two  hearts  stopped 
beating. 

Again — and  more  distinctly  now — as  if  someone  moved. 

He  sat  up;  the  girl  grasped  his  hand  in  fear. 

They  could  hear  it  plainly  now — footsteps,  coming  nearer. 
Heavily,  hesitatingly,  as  if  not  knowing  whether  to  go  on  or 
turn  back. 

Olof  was  petrified.  It  was  all  unreal  as  a  dream,  and 
yet — he  knew  that  step — would  know  it  among  a  thousand. 

"I  must  go!"  He  pressed  the  girl's  hand  fiercely,  and 
reached  hurriedly  for  his  hat.  He  groped  his  way  toward 
the  door,  found  the  handle,  but  had  not  strength  to  open  it. 

He  strove  to  pull  himself  together.  He  must  go — for  the 
sake  of  the  girl  who  lay  trembling  there  in  bed,  and  more 
for  the  sake  of  her  who  stood  in  the  room  beyond.  The  door 
opened  and  closed  again. 

An  old  woman  stood  there  waiting.  Motionless  as  a 
statue,  her  wrinkled  features  set,  her  eyes  full  of  a  pain  and 
bitterness  tliat  crushed  him  like  a  burden. 

For  a  while  neither  moved.  The  woman's  face  seemed  to 
fade  away  into  the  gloom,  but  the  look  in  her  eyes  was  there 
still.  A  sudden  tremor,  and  Olof  saw  no  more,  but  felt  a 
warm  flood  welling  from  beneath  his  eyelids. 


A  MOTHER'S  EYES  19 

Without  a  word  she  turned,  and  went  down  the  steps. 
Olof  followed  her. 

With  bowed  head,  and  arms  hanging  loosely  at  her  side, 
she  walked  on.  The  last  brief  hour  seemed  to  have  aged 
her  beyond  all  knowing. 

He  felt  a  violent  impulse  to  run  forward  and  throw  him- 
self on  his  knees  in  the  dust  before  her.  But  he  dared  not, 
and  his  feet  refused  their  service. 

They  came  to  Kankaala. 

The  porch  seemed  glowering  at  them  like  a  questioning 
eye  as  they  came  up.  Olof  started,  and  the  blood  rushed  to 
his  head. 

"Who  comes  here?"  queried  the  porch.  "Tis  the  mistress 
of  Koskela,  or  should  be.  And  who  is  it  walks  behind, 
hanging  his  head?     Surely  not  her  son?" 

'Ay,  'tis  her  son,  never  fear,"  said  the  broad  window 
above,  grinning  all  the  length  of  the  wall.  "The  son  of  the 
house  been  seeing  his  light-o'-love,  and  his  mother  brings 
him  home!" 

"H'm,"  said  the  porch.  "'Twas  not  that  mother's  way  to 
go  seeking  her  sons,  nor  ever  need  of  it  before." 

Olof's  head  dropped  again. 

Heavily  the  old  woman  trudged  up  Seppala  hill. 

"Who's  this  out  and  abroad  so  late?"  creaked  the  wooden 
pail  in  its  chain  above  the  well.  "Mother  and  son?'  And 
what's   the   mischief   now?" 

Olof  felt  the  ground  quaking  beneath  his  feet. 

They  were  nearly  home  now.  Musti  the  house-dog  came 
to  meet  them,  wagging  his  tail  in  friendly  wise.  But  sud- 
denly it  checked,  and  crouched  anxiously  in  the  grass. 


20     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"What's  mistress  all  so  sorrowful  about?  And  where 
have  you  been  so  late  at  night?" 

Olof  turned  his  head  aside,  and  walked  by  as  if  fearing 
to  tread. 

They  reached  the  steps. 

"What's  this,  what's  this?"  buzzed  the  vane  on  its  pole 
by  the  fence.  Olof  had  made  it  himself  one  day,  as  a  boy. 
It  said  no  more,  only  muttered  again,  "What's  this?" 

The  old  woman  mounted  the  steps.  She  said  no  word, 
nor  ever  looked  behind  her,  but  Olof  followed  her  step  by 
step.  His  own  room  was  at  the  side  of  the  house,  by  the 
kitchen,  but  he  went  on  after  her  without  a  thought  of 
escape. 

She  passed  through  the  front  room  into  the  next,  crossed 
to  the  window,  and  sank  down  in  a  chair.  Olof  followed 
close  behind  her,  and  stood,  hat  in  hand. 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"I  never  thought  to  go  on  such  an  errand  as  this  to-night," 
said  the  woman  heavily.  She  did  not  look  at  him;  her  eyes 
seemed  fixed  on  something  far  away. 

The  boy's  knees  trembled,  he  could  hardly  stand. 

"Shame — ay,  'twas  shame  I  felt  for  you  when  you  were 
born,  old  as  I  was,  and  never  thinking  to  have  more.  May- 
hap 'twas  a  sign  you'd  bring  but  shame  to  me  after  and  all. 
.  .  ."  The  words  fell  heavy  as  lead,  and  brought  him  to  his 
knees. 

"Mother!"  He  could  say  no  more,  but  hid  his  face  in 
her  lap,  and  cried  like  a  child. 

A  great  warmth  rose  in  the  mother's  breast  and  throbbed 
in  her  veins. 


A  MOTHER'S  EYES  21 

"Mother,  I  promise — you  shall  never  go  that  way  again 
for  me.     And  .  .  .  and  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off. 

The  warmth  rose  to  her  eyes,  seeking  an  outlet  there. 

"And  .  .  .?"  she  asked  gently.     "What  then,  my  son?" 

The  young  man's  brow  was  deeply  lined,  as  he  strove  to 
speak.  Then  resolutely  he  looked  up  and  said,  "I  will 
marry    her." 

"Marry  her?"  An  icy  wave  came  over  her,  and  she 
gasped  for  breath. 

"Olof,"  she  went  on  in  a  trembling  voice,  "look  at  me. 
Have  you — has  anything  happened  already?"  Breathlessly 
she  waited  for  his  answer. 

"No,"  said  the  boy,  and  looked  her  frankly  in  the  eyes. 
"But  I  love  her." 

The  mother's  hands  trembled,  and  she  sighed.  But  for 
a  long  while  she  said  no  word,  only  sat  looking  as  before 
out  into  vague  distance,  as  if  seeking  what  to  say. 

"Ay,"  she  said  at  last,  "  'tis  right  to  marry  where  you  love, 
and  no  other.  But  a  servant-girl — there's  none  of  our  race 
ever  married  that  way  before.  And  as  for  love — you're 
over  young  to  know." 

Olof  flushed  angrily,  and  he  would  have  spoken,  but  the 
noble  dignity  of  his  mother's  glance  checked  the  thought 
ere  it  was  uttered. 

"Go  now,"  she  said  gently.  "We  will  talk  of  this  another 
time." 


FATHER  AND  SON 

THE   early   meal   was   over,    and   the    farm   hands 
pressed  out  through  the  door. 
"You,   Olof,  stay  behind,"  said  the  master  of 
Koskela  from  his  seat  at  the  head  of  the  table.     "I've  a 
word  to  say  to  you." 

Olof  felt  his  cheeks  tingling.     He  knew  what  his  father 
had  to  say — ^he  had  been  waiting  for  this. 

The  three  were  alone  now — his  mother  stood  by  the  stove. 
"Sit  down,"  said  the  father  coldly,  from  his  place. 

Olof  obeyed.     For  a  while  nothing  was  heard   but  the 
slow  beat  of  the  clock  on  the  wall. 

"I  know  where  your  mother  was  last  night.     Are  you  not 
ashamed?" 

Olof  bowed  his  head. 

"  'Tis  a  sound  thrashing  you  should  have — and  don't  be 
too  sure  but  that  you'll  have  it  yet." 

Olof  did  not  venture  to  look  up,  but  the  voice  told  that 
his  father  was  working  himself  into  a  passion. 

"What's  to  come  of  you,  hey,  d'you  think?     Getting  the 
wenches  with  child  to  begin  with — and  what  next?" 

"Father!"     It   was   his   mother's    voice.     Her   face    was 
anxious,  as  if  in  dread  of  coming  disaster. 

A  glance  of  cold  anger  was  all  her  husband's  answer.     He 
turned  to  the  boy  once  more,  and  went  on: 

"What  next,  hey?     Bring  home  the  brats  for  us  to  feed, 
maybe?     Is  it  that's  in  your  mind?" 

22 


FATHER  AND  SON  .    23 

A  flush  of  indignation  spread  over  the  young  man's  face. 
Was  this  his  father,  speaking  to  him  thus?  Or  some  brutal 
stranger  that  had  taken  his  place? 

And  all  at  once  a  rush  of  feeling  took  possession  of  him, 
something  new  and  fierce  and  strange,  filling  him  altogether. 
He  raised  his  head,  as  if  to  speak,  but  said  no  word,  only 
rose  up,  as  if  someone  had  taken  him  by  the  hand,  and 
walked  towards  the  door. 

"Where  are  you  going — what?" 

"I've  my  work  to  do." 

"Ho!  You — you  .  .  ."  The  words  were  flung  at  him 
like  a  hand  reaching  for  his  throat.  "Not  a  step  till  you've 
answered  me,  d'you  hear!     Was  it  that  was  in  your  mind?" 

The  young  man  hesitated.  But  a  little  time  since  he  had 
felt  himself  bowed  down  with  shame,  ready  to  make  any 
reparation;  now,  in  a  moment,  all  seemed  changed,  he  felt 
he  must  hit  back,  must  strike  one  blow  for  all  that  had  been 
growing  and  seething  within  him  in  secret  these  last  few 
days.  He  turned  swiftly,  and  answered  proudly  and 
resolutely,  with  lifted  head: 

"No!     But  to  marry  her — that  was  in  my  mind." 

The  old  man's  features  set  in  a  scornful  sneer  at  the  word. 
But  the  look  on  his  son's  face  made  him  hesitate,  uncertain 
how  to  proceed. 

"Marry  her?"  He  bent  fonvard  in  his  seat,  as  if  doubt- 
ing whether  he  had  heard  aright. 

"Yes!"  came  the  answer,  more  firmly  than  before. 

And  having  spoken,  Olof  felt  he  must  avenge  the  insult 
to  himself  and  to  the  girl,  must  strike  once  more  with  the 
weapon  he  had  seen  could  bite  so  keenly  and  so  deep. 


24     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"And  marry  her  /  will!"  The  words  fell  like  the  snap 
of  a  lock. 

"Boy — ^you  dare!"  It  was  the  roar  of  a  wounded  beast. 
Furiously  the  old  man  sprang  to  the  door,  snatching  up  a 
stick  as  he  rose,  seized  the  boy  by  the  collar,  and  flung  him 
to  his  knees  on  the  floor,  making  the  beams  shake.  It  was 
all  done  in  a  moment.  "You  dare!"  he  cried  again,  raising 
his  stick. 

Then  suddenly  his  arm  dropped  as  if  broken,  and  the 
old  man  was  hurled  across  the  room  as  a  ball  is  thrown,  to 
fall  with  a  crash  against  the  opposite  wall. 

It  was  as  if  a  hurricane  had  burst  upon  him.  A  sense 
of  horror  came  upon  him;  he  felt  himself  deposed,  like  a 
lord  of  the  manor  declared  bankrupt  before  his  underlings. 
He  had  no  power  over  the  boy  now — either  as  a  father  or  as 
the  stronger  man.  And  there  by  the  door  stood  the  lad, 
with  the  lithe  strength  of  youth  in  his  body  and  a  fire  of 
defiance  in  his  eyes. 

The  clock  on  the  wall  beat  through  the  silence,  as  if 
questioning  earnestly  what  this  might  mean.  But  no  one 
answered. 

"So — that's  it,  is  it?"  gasped  the  father  at  last. 

"Ay!"  answered  the  son,  his  voice  trembling  with  emotion, 
but  threatening  still. 

The  old  man  flung  his  stick  in  a  corner,  stepped  back,  and 
sat  down  heavily  in  his  place. 

"If  you've  a  drop  of  my  blood  in  your  veins,"  he  said 
at  last,  "you'll  need  no  telling  what  must  be  the  end  of  this." 

"I  know  it,"  was  the  answer.     "I'm  going,  never  fear." 

The  mother  pressed  her  clasped  hands  tighter,  took  a  step 
forward  and  opened  her  lips  as  if  to  speak,  but  the  look  on 


FATHER  AND  SON  25 

the  two  men's  faces  silenced  her,  and  she  fell  back  in  the 
voiceless  blank  of  unaccomplished  purpose. 

Again  the  clock  was  heard. 

"I'd  thought  to  make  something  of  you,"  said  the  old 
man  in  icy  tones.  "But  you'd  no  fancy  for  book-learning 
and  gentlefolks'  ways,  though  you'd  a  good  head  enough. 
Rather  stick  to  the  land,  you  would,  and  flung  away  the 
books  after  a  year  of  them.  But  a  man  that  looks  to  work 
his  land  as  it  should  be — he's  books  of  his  own,  or  what's 
the  same — and  that  you  must  fling  away  now  the  same  gait, 
it  seems — to  waste  yourself  in  a  common  strumpet's  bed!" 

The  young  man  drew  himself  up,  and  his  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"Leave  it  unsaid!"  cried  his  father.  " 'Tis  best  so." 
Then  rising  from  his  seat,  he  stood  a  moment  as  if  in 
thought,  and  passed  through  the  open  door  to  the  next  room, 
opened  a  cupboard  there  and  took  something  out. 

"No  son  of  mine  goes  out  from  this  house  a  beggar," 
said  he  proudly,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  can  put  the  money  back,"  said  the  boy,  with  no 
less  pride. 

"  'Tis  but  poor  provision  for  a  journey,  anyway,  if  a  man 
can't  manage  for  himself,"  he  added,  turning  away. 

His  father  stood  still,  looking  at  him  earnestly,  as  if 
trying  to  read  something. 

"  'Tis  no  harm  to  a  man  to  manage  for  himself  if  he 
can,"  said  he  slowly.  He  spoke  in  no  angry  tone,  but  with 
a  stern  approval. 

The  boy  stood  thinking  for  a  moment. 

"Good-bye,  father." 

His  father  did  not  answer,  but  stared  fixedly  before  him, 
and  his  eyes  hardened. 


26     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

His  mother  had  seated  herself  on  a  bench  beside  the 
window,  her  face  turned  away,  looking  out — and  warm 
drops  fell  on  the  sill. 

The  young  man  moved  towards  her  slowly,  as  if  question- 
ing. She  turned  towards  him,  and  their  eyes  met — then 
they  passed  out  of  the  room  together. 

The  old  man  remained  seated,  a  sharp  pain  at  his  breast. 
A  flush  of  anger  rose  to  his  cheeks,  and  his  lips  trembled, 
but  he  could  not  speak,  and  sat  still,  staring  at  the  floor. 

In  the  next  room,  the  mother  turned  anxiously  to  her  son, 
and  grasped  his  hand.     "Olof !" 

"Mother!"  The  boy  was  trembling.  And  fearing  to  lose 
control  of  his  feelings,  he  went  on  hastily:  "Mother,  I 
know,  I  know.     Don't  say  any  more." 

But  she  took  both  his  hands  in  hers,  and  looked  earnestly 
into  his  eyes._ 

"I  must  say  it — I  couldn't  before.  Olof — you  are  your 
father's  son,  and  'tis  not  your  way,  either  of  you,  to  care 
much  what  you  do — if  it's  building  or  breaking."  And 
with  intense  earnestness,  as  if  concentrating  all  her  being  in 
her  eyes  and  voice,  she  went  on:  '"''Never  deceive,  Olof; 
stand  by  your  promise  and  word  to  all — whatever  their 
station." 

The  boy  pressed  her  hands  with  emotion,  almost  in  fear, 
unable  to  speak  a  word. 

"God  keep  you  safe  from  harm,  my  son."  The  mother's 
voice  broke.  "Don't  forget  this  is  your  home.  Come  back 
when,  when  .  .  ." 

The  boy  pressed  her  hands  once  more,  and  turned  hastily 
away.  He  must  go  now,  if  he  would  have  the  strength  to 
go  at  all. 


PANSY 

THE   clouds   raced   over   the  night   sky;   the  river- 
banks  gazed  at  the  flowing  water,  at  the  heavy 
timber  floating  slowly  over  its  surface.     "Let  it 
come!"  cried  the  long  stretch  of  wild  rapids  below. 

Under  the  lee  of  a  steep  bank,  just  at  the  point  where  the 
eddy  begins,  flickered  a  small  camp-fire.  The  lumbermen 
sat  round  it — four  of  them  there  were.  The  boom  had  just 
been  drawn  aside,  the  baulks  from  above  came  floating  down 
in  clean  rows,  needing  no  helping  hand,  and  for  the  past 
two  hours  there  had  been  no  block  in  the  river.  The  lumber- 
men were  having  an  easy  time  to-night. 

"The  farmer  he  sleeps  in  a  cosy  cot, 

With  a  roof  above  his  head; 
The  lumberman  lies  out  under  the  stars, 

With  the  dew  to  soften  his  bed. 
But  we'd  not  change  our  Ufe  so  free 

For  all  the  farmer's  gold, 
Let  clodhoppers  snore  at  their  ease  o'  nights, 

But  we  be  lumbermen  bold!" 

The  river  woke  from  its  dreams. 

The  river-guard,  seated  on  piles  of  baulks  by  the  water- 
side, shifted  a  little. 

"But  we  be  lumbermen  bold!" 

cried  the  nearest.     And  the  song  was  passed  on  from  one 

point  to  another,  from  shore  to  shore,  all  down  the  rapids, 

to  the  gangs  below. 

27 


28    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

Then  all  was  silent  again,  for  midnight  loves  not  song, 
though  it  does  demand  a  call  from  man  to  man  through  the 
dark.  It  loves  better  to  listen,  while  the  river  tells  of  the 
dread  sea-monster  that  yearly  craves  a  human  life,  whether 
grown  or  child,  but  always  a  life  a  year. 

All  things  solemn  and  still  now.  The  moon  sits  quiet  as 
if  in  church,  and  jesting  dies  on  the  roughest  lips.  Many 
call  to  mind  things  seen  at  such  a  time — a  man  drawn  down 
by  an  invisible  grasp,  to  rise  no  more,  a  widow  wringing  her 
hands  and  wailing,  fatherless  children  crying  and  sobbing. 
Some  there  are  who  have  seen  the  marks  of  the  water-spirits 
on  a  drowned  man's  body,  or  maybe  seen  the  thing  itself 
rise  up  at  midnight,  furrowing  the  water  with  a  gleam  of 
light  where  it  moves.  Whose  turn  next?  None  can  say, 
but  the  danger  is  never  far  off. 

The  little  camp-fire  flickered,  the  roar  of  the  rapids  grew 
fainter.  The  moon  sits  listening  to  the  legends  of  the  river, 
and  gazing  down  into  the  water. 

Suddenly  a  great  shout  is  heard  from  below.  The  men 
start  up. 

"Lock  in,  lock  in!     Close  the  boom!"  comes  the  cry. 

A  murmur  of  relief  from  the  men.  Wakened  abruptly 
from  the  spell  of  the  hour,  they  had  taken  the  hail  at  first 
for  a  cry  of  distress.  They  race  up,  lifting  their  poles  above 
their  heads  as  a  sign  the  fairway  is  blocked,  and  the  word 
of  command,  "Lock  in,  lock  in!"  is  flung  from  man  to  man 
along  the  bank. 

"Lock  in  it  is!"  cries  the  man  at  the  head,  and  runs  from 
the  camp-fire  down  to  the  waterside.  The  rope  is  slipped, 
the  end  of  the  boom  hauled  close  up  to  the  shore  and  made 
fast  again. 


PANSY  29 

"  'Twill  hold  a  bit,"  says  one.  "But  like  to  be  a  long 
spell  for  us  all — for  there's  none'll  care  to  get  far  out  on  the 
block  to-night,  if  it  lasts.     Let's  go  down  and  see." 

The  party  made  their  way  down  the  path  by  the  edge  of 
the  bank. 

As  the  last  of  the  timber  comes  down,  the  guards  by  the 
rapids  join  them,  one  after  another.     "Where'll  it  be?" 

"Down  below  somewhere,  must  be.  If  only  it's  not  the 
WTiirlstone  again." 

"Ay,  if  it's  that  .  .  .  'Tis  no  light  work  to  get  loose  there 
in  the  daytime,  let  alone  by  night." 

The  Whirlstone  Rock  it  was;  the  baulks  had  gathered 
about  it  in  an  inextricable  mass.  The  shores  were  dark 
with  men  gathered  to  watch. 

"Ay,  'tis  there,  sure  enough,  and  fast  as  nails,"  said  the 
men  coming  in  to  the  shore,  after  a  vain  attempt  at  breaking 
loose  the  block. 

The  Whirlstone  was  a  point  of  rock,  rising  barely  a  yard 
above  the  surface  of  the  water,  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
rapids,  where  the  river  began  to  widen  out  and  clear.  It 
lay  rather  to  the  right  of  the  fairway,  and  the  timber  floated 
clear,  for  the  most  part,  to  the  left  of  it.  But  a  long  stem 
bringing  up  against  it  broadside  on  would  be  checked,  and 
others  packing  against  it  form  a  fan-shaped  mass  reaching 
from  bank  to  bank.  And  it  was  a  dangerous  business  to 
try  and  break  it,  for  the  point  of  contact  was  at  the  rock 
itself  out  in  the  river,  and  there  was  no  time  to  reach  the 
bank  once  the  timber  started  to  spread.  The  usual  way 
was  to  get  out  a  boat  from  below,  and  even  then  it  was  a 
race  for  life  to  get  clear  before  the  loosened  mass  came  roar- 
ing down. 


30     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

The  foreman  swore  aloud.  "I'll  have  that  cursed  rock  out 
of  the  fairway  next  summer,  if  I  have  to  splinter  it.  Well, 
there's  nothing  for  it  now;  get  your  coffee,  lads,  and  wait 
till  it's  light." 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  it  first,"  cried  a  young,  brisk  voice 
in  the  crowd.     "Maybe  we  could  get  it  clear." 

"There's  no  clearing  that  in  the  dark,"  said  the  foreman. 
"Try,  if  you  like." 

The  young  man  sprang  out  on  to  the  nearest  point  of  the 
block,  and  leaped  across  actively,  with  lifted  pole,  to  the 
middle.  Reaching  there,  he  bent  down  to  see  how  the  jam 
was  fixed. 

"Hallo!"  came  a  hail  from  the  rock.  "It's  easy  enough. 
There's  just  one  stick  here  holding  it  up — a  cut  of  the  axe'll 
clear  it." 

"Ho!"  cried  the  men  ashore.  "And  who's  to  cut  it  loose, 
out  there  in  the  dark  and  all?" 

"Get  a  rope  and  haul  it  clear!"  shouted  the  foreman. 

"No  use — can't  be  done  that  way." 

The  young  man  came  ashore.  "Mind  if  I  lose  the  axe?" 
he  asked  the  foreman. 

"Lose  a  dozen  and  welcome,  if  you  can  get  it  clear. 
Better  than  losing  two  hours'  work  for  fifteen  men." 

"Right.     Give  me  an  axe,  somebody." 

"  'Tis  fooling  ^\^th  death,"  cried  one  in  the  crowd.  "Don't 
let  him  go." 

"How  d'you  reckon  to  get  back?"  asked  the  foreman. 

"Upstream  at  first,  and  come  down  after,  when  it  clears." 

"  'Tis  a  mad  trick,"  muttered  the  men. 

"I'm  not  telling  him  to  go,  but  I  won't  forbid  him,"  said 
the  foreman,  with  emphasis.     "And  if  'twas  any  other  man 


PANSY  31 

I'd  not  let  him  try,  but  when  Olof  says  he'll  do  a  thing 
it's  safe  enough  to  be  done.    Sure  you  can  do  it,  lad?" 

"Sure  as  can  be.     Where's  the  axe?" 

He  took  the  axe,  and  his  pole,  and  balanced  his  way 
across  to  the  rock,  gliding  like  a  shadow,  up  and  down  as 
the  piled  stems  led. 

"He's  pluck  enough,"  said  one. 

"He's  mad  to  try  it,"  murmured  some  of  the  others  sul- 
lenly. 

The  shadow  had  reached  the  rock.  He  laid  the  pole 
do^vn  at  his  feet,  gave  one  glance  upstream,  and  stood 
ready.  The  axe-head  flashed  in  the  air,  the  echo  of  the 
stroke  rang  from  the  steep  banks.  A  second  blow,  and  a 
third — and  then  dead  silence  for  a  moment. 

The  men  on  the  shore  stood  bending  forward,  straining 
their  eyes  to  see. 

The  shadow  by  the  rock  stood  up,  grasping  his  pole, 
thrust  the  point  lightly  into  one  of  the  tangled  baulks,  and 
pressed  with  his  left  hand  against  the  haft.  The  right 
hand  went  up  once  more,  the  axe  flashed  and  fell.  A  thud 
as  the  blade  came  down,  and  a  faint  rushing  sound.  .  .  . 

The  men  on  the  bank  held  their  breath  and  leaned  for- 
ward again. 

The  shadow  turned  once  more  and  cast  a  long,  search- 
ing glance  up  the  stream.  The  right  arm  swung  high,  the 
axe  flashed  again.  .  .  , 

A  shrill,  seething  roar,  like  tliat  of  a  rocket,  was  heard. 
The  mass  of  timber  crashed  and  groaned,  the  water  thun- 
dered like  a  beast  in  fury. 

The  shadow  darted  like  an  arrow  over  the  shifting  logs, 
slanting  upstream  and  towards  the  shore.     He  was  half 


32    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

across  the  fairway  now,  the  pole  swung  round,  the  lithe 
body  made  a  lightning  turn,  and  he  was  borne  downstream 
at  a  furious  pace. 

Suddenly  he  lost  his  footing,  fell,  and  disappeared. 

"Good  God !"  cried  the  men. 

"What  did  I  say?" 

"I  ought  never  to  have  let  him  go!" 

The  timber  crashed  and  the  water  roared,  the  great  logs 
rose  and  fell  and  tumbled  one  over  another.  Dark  shadows 
hurried  aimlessly  hither  and  thither  on  the  banks. 

"Downstream,  lads,  down!"  cried  the  foreman.  "Ready 
to  give  a  hand  if  he's  carried  inshore.  Out  with  the  boat, 
quick!" 

Shadows  hurrjdng  downstream.  .  .  . 

"He's  up  again!"  came  a  sudden  shout  from  the  farther 
shore.    All  stopped. 

And  true  enough,  the  daring  lumberman  was  up  again, 
hopping  like  a  bird  from  one  racing  log  to  another  as 
they  thrust  and  elbowed  their  way  down  the  rapids,  rising 
and  falling  as  in  a  loom.  Then  he  settled  to  the  prac- 
tised lumberman's  easy  poise  on  a  log,  and  steered  his 
way,  with  lifted  pole  and  carefully  balanced  body,  out  of 
the  rapids. 

"Well  done,  well  done!" 

"Ay,  that's  the  sort.  More  eyes  in  his  feet  than  many 
another  in  his  head." 

They  crowded  thickly  round  the  lad  as  he  stepped 
ashore. 

"What  happened?     How  did  you  get  up  again?" 

"  'Twas  easy  enough.  Only  the  bark  broke  away  under 
foot,   the   sticks   themselves   held   fast.      I    was    up    again 


PANSY  33 

in  a  second — and  the  last  part  was  worth  it  all,"  said  the 
boy,  with  a  laugh.  ^ 

"  'Twas  finely  done,"  said  the  foreman.  "But  I  don't 
want  to  see  it  done  again.  You've  done  enough  for  to-night — 
go  off  and  get  a  rest,  and  to-morrow  too,  if  you  like." 

"Thanks,"  said  the  young  man,  looked  at  his  watch  with 
a  sly  chuckle,  and  flung  down  his  pole  on  the  grass. 

Behind  white  curtains  in  a  little  room  lay  a  young  girl. 

It  was  midnight,  yet  she  had  not  slept.  Something  had 
happened  that  evening  which  kept  her  awake. 

Strange — it  was  like  a  story  or  a  dream;  she  had  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing  happening  to  any  she  knew.  And 
now — ^she  had  only  to  shut  her  eyes,  and  it  was  there  all 
over  again,  to  the  very  life. 

She  had  seen  it  that  way  many  times  already,  till  it  was 
grown  to  something  like  a  story.  She  had  watched  it  hap- 
pening, standing  by,  as  it  were,  a  looker-on,  watching  what 
passed  between  the  girl  there  and  one  other. 

She  was  standing  in  the  front  room — the  girl,  that  is — 
pouring  the  warm  milk  through  a  big  strainer. 

"They're  giving  more  milk  already,"  thinks  the  girl, 
and  laughs. 

Then  suddenly  the  door  opens,  and  a  crowd  of  lumber- 
men come  hurrying  through  the  room,  going  out  to  their 
night's  work.  The  girl  stands  with  her  back  turned  to 
them  as  they  pass,  answering  over  her  shoulder  the  jests 
of  the  men  as  they  go. 

But  the  one  diat  was  last  of  all — he  did  not  go  on  with 
the  rest,  but  stayed,  as  if  in  wonder,  looking  at  her.  A 
tall,  slender  lad.     His  jacket  was  unbuttoned,  his  cap  a 


34    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

trifle   on   one  side,    and   a  mischievous   expression   played 
about  his  sunburnt  face. 

But  the  girl  sees  nothing,  thinking  the  men  have  gone. 
And  she,  the  looker-on,  finds  it  strange  that  the  girl  should 
not  see.  .  .  .  What  is  going  to  happen  now? 

Then  the  young  man  smiles,  and  steals  forward  noise- 
lessly— the  looker-on  is  all  excitement  now,  and  on  the 
point  of  crying  out  to  warn  her. 

Two  hands  reach  out  from  behind  and  close  gently  over 
the  girl's  eyes. 

"Oh!"  screams  the  girl.  "Who  is  it?  How  dare  you!" 
And  with  a  scream  she  turns  and  sees  him  standing  there. 

"Good  evening,"  says  the  young  man,  laughing,  and 
raising  his  cap.  And  the  looker-on  notes  how  the  girl  only 
blushes  and  makes  no  answer. 

"Did  I  frighten  you?"  he  goes  on.  "I  meant  no  harm, 
I'm  sure." 

"  'Tis  no  matter,"  says  the  girl.  "I  was  only  startled 
for  a  moment." 

"And  you're  not  angry  now?" 

"Nay;  why  should  I  be?    For  a  jest?" 

"That's  right.  I  felt  directly  I  saw  you  as  if  we  were 
old  friends — only  I  couldn't  remember  your  name,  so  I 
thought  I'd  just  stop  and  ask." 

Oh,  but  'tis  a  handsome  lad — and  such  a  smile,  thinks 
the  girl  looking  on. 

"Pansy,  they  call  me,"  says  the  other  girl  shyly,  "but  .  .  ." 

"Say  no  more,"  the  young  man  breaks  in.  "Pansy,  they 
call  you — 'tis  enough  for  me." 

Surely  then  the  name  must  be  a  good  one,  since  he  seems 
to  like  it  so,  thinks  the  girl  looking  on. 


PANSY  36 

"And  you  .  .  .  ?"  asks  the  girl.  "You're  a  stranger,  I 
think." 

"Stranger?"  cries  the  young  man,  with  a  laugh  that  echoes 
through  the  room.  "Couldn't  you  feel  it  was  a  friend  and 
no  'stranger'  when  my  hands  closed  over  your  eyes?"  And 
he  looks  at  her  with  such  irresistible  friendliness  as  he 
speaks,  that  she  cannot  but  smile — and  the  girl  looking  on 
smiles  too. 

"Olof's  my  name — and  no  stranger,  if  you  please." 

After  that  he  seemed  to  be  thinking  for  a  moment,  then 
suddenly  he  asks,  "Are  you  fond  of  flowers,  Pansy?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  And  I've  two  of  my  own — a  fuchsia  and 
a  balsamine,"  answers  the  girl. 

"Red  flowers  both!  And  do  you  keep  them  in  your 
window?" 

"Where  else  should  they  be?" 

"And  can  you  see  them  from  outside?" 

"Indeed  you  can,  now  they're  in  bloom." 

"And  where  is  your  window,  then?"  says  he,  with  a  sly 
little  gleam  in  his  eyes.  "Tell  me,  so  I  can  see  them  too 
when  I  pass." 

The  girl  opens  her  lips  to  answer,  but  checks  herself  sud- 
denly.    "Nay,  I'll  not  tell!" 

Oh,  but  how  cunning  of  him,  thinks  the  looker-on.  Never 
was  such  a  sly  one.  Anyone  else  would  just  have  asked 
straight  out  where  she  slept.  And  then  of  course  the  girl 
would  have  been  offended  at  once.  But  this  young  man — he 
says  never  a  word  of  anything  but  flowers. 

"In  the  parlour?"  he  asks,  with  a  laugh. 

"No!" 

"Up  in  the  loft,  then?" 


36     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"No,  nor  there." 

"Then  it's  the  little  room  at  the  back." 

"No,  no!"  cries  the  girl,  all  confused.  "Not  there,  in- 
deed it's  not." 

The  young  man  laughs.  "I  can't  guess  any  more.  But 
it's  cruel  of  you  not  to  tell." 

And  there  again,  mark  the  slyness  of  him,  thinks  the  girl 
looking  on.  Anyone  else  would  have  laughed  out  loud  and 
said,  "Now,  I  know!"  and  the  girl  would  have  blushed. 

"Well,  we're  friends  now,  real  friends,  aren't  we?"  says 
he,  after  a  while. 

"  'Tis  early  yet,  for  sure.     But  if  so,  what  then?" 

"Why,  I  was  but  thinking — if  we  were  friends,  I'd  ask 
you — no,  I  won't  ask  yet." 

"You  can  ask  if  you  like,  'twill  do  no  harm,"  says  the 
girl,  curious  to  hear. 

"Only  this — if  anyone  has  ever — ever  pressed  your  hand." 

"No,"  says  the  girl,  with  a  blush.     "I'd  never  let  them." 

There  again,  so  neatly  put,  thinks  the  looker-on.  And 
how  nice  and  frank  and  handsome  he  looks. 

"Now,  I  wonder  if  that's  true,"  says  he.  "But  I'U  soon 
see.     Give  me  your  hand  a  minute." 

"What  for?" 

"Oh,  I  can  read  it,  and  find  out  all  sorts  of  things." 

"You?" 

"Yes.     Don't  believe  it?     But  you  dare  not  try." 

"Ho!    Dare  not,  indeed!"     And  she  gives  him  her  hand. 

Now  what's  going  to  happen,  thinks  the  looker-on. 

"H'm.  It's  true,  by  the  look  of  things,"  says  the  young 
man  seriously.     "No  one  has  ever  pressed  your  hand.     But 


PANSY  37 

do)Mi  there  under  the  window — there's  more  than  one  that's 
stopped  to  look  at  your  flowers." 

"How  do  you Oh,   you   don't  know  really,   you're 

making  it  all  up." 

"Sh!  I'm  telling  your  fortune.  Listen!  But  what's  this 
I  see?     Well,  I'd  never  have  thought  .  .  ." 

"What — what  is  it?"  asks  the  girl  anxiously. 

"What  it  is  I  dare  not  say.  Only  I'd  never  have  thought 
it." 

"Oh — you  only  say  that  because  you  can't  find  anything 
proper  to  say  at  all." 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  then?"  asks  he,  looking  her 
straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Yes — if  you  can." 

"Right.  But  you  mustn't  be  angry  if  I  do."  His  voice 
falls  to  a  whisper.  "Look — look  there!  He's  coming — this 
very  night!" 

"He — who?"   asks  the  girl  uneasily. 

"He — the  one  that  you've  been  waiting  for — the  one  that 
is  to — press  your  hand." 

"It's   not   true!"   cries  the  girl.     "I'll  never  let  him!" 

"Sh!  I  can  only  say  what  it  says  there.  He  will  come, 
be  sure  of  that.  At  midnight,  or  thereabouts.  And  he  will 
not  beg  and  pray  and  ask  as  the  others  do,  only  knock  at 
your  window  three  times,  softly,  but  firmly — and  then  you'll 
know  it's  the  right  one,  and  no  other.  .  .  .  But  now  I  must 
go.    Good-night,  Pansy." 

And  with  a  wave  of  his  cap  he  hurries  out. 

And  she — the  one  that  is  looking  on — marks  how  the  girl 
stands  all  confused  for  a  while,  and  then  goes  softly  to  the 
door,  watching  him  till  he  is  out  of  sight. 


38     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

The  story  is  ended — the  girl  opens  her  eyes. 

And  ended,  too,  the  pleasant  self-forgetfulness  with  which 
she  had  watched  the  scene  as  acted  by  another — in  place  of 
it  come  doubts  and  questionings  out  of  the  dark. 

"What  shall  I  do  if  he  comes — what  shall  I  do?" 

Already  she  seemed  to  hear  footsteps  outside,  her  heart 
beat  so  violently,  she  pressed  her  hand  to  her  breast.  And 
it  was  a  relief  when  no  one  came  after  all,  and  she  hoped 
and  hoped  he  would  not  come  at  all,  to  spoil  the  pretty 
fairy  story. 

"But  then — if  he  should  not  come?  If  he  had  been  only 
jesting,  after  all."  That  was  worse  still.  "If  he  would 
only  come — but  only  to  the  window — look  in  at  the  flowers, 
but  not  to  knock  three  times,  no.  .  .    ." 

She  went  back  to  the  beginning  again — a  girl  stood  in 
the  front  room,  pouring  warm  milk  through  a  big 
strainer.  .  .  . 

A  knocking  at  the  window — three  soft,  short  taps. 

The  girl  sat  up  with  a  start,  holding  her  breath.  She 
raised  her  head,  and  looked  anxiously  toward  the  window. 
The  fuchsia  and  the  balsamine  gazed  at  her  from  the  sill  with 
questioning  eyes:     "What  is  this  you  are  doing,  Pansy?" 

And  behind  the  flowers  was  a  dark  shadow,  against  the 
blind.  She  felt  that  he  was  looking  straight  through  at 
her:    "I  am  here.  Pansy." 

The  shadow  seemed  calling  her  to  account  for  something 
she  had  promised.  She  hid  her  face  in  the  pillow,  and 
pulled  the  quilt  over  her  head.  Her  heart  throbbed  till 
the  bed  itself  seemed  to  shake. 

"And  he  will  not  beg  and  pray  and  ask,  as  the  others  do." 


PANSY  39 

Slowly  the  girl  drew  herself  up  and  remained  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed,  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

"If  he  would  only  knock  again,  and  give  me  time  to 
think — to  think.  .  .  ." 

The  dark  shadow  did  not  move,  the  fuchsia  and  the  bal- 
samine  stood  breathless. 

Quietly  she  slipped  to  the  floor  and  stepped  forward 
doubtfully  a  pace  or  two.  There  was  a  movement  of  the 
shadow;  the  girl  trembled,  and  caught  at  the  bedpost  for 
support. 

The  shadow  stopped  at  once,  and  stood  as  before,  calling 
her  to  account. 

With  eyes  cast  down,  she  moved  again  towards  the  door 
— slowly,  hesitatingly,  as  if  her  heart  were  willing,  but  her 
limbs  refused.  She  could  feel  the  shadow  gliding  round 
outside  to  the  doorway.  Her  heart  throbbed  as  if  it  would 
burst;  her  fingers  grasped  feverishly  at  the  latch. 

Then  slowly,  silently,  the  latch  was  raised;  the  girl  fled 
to  the  comer  by  the  stove,  and  stood  there  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

The  door  opened,  closed  again,  and  the  latch  was  pressed 
down  firmly. 

"Where  are  you,  Pansy,  little  friend?  Is  it  you  there  in 
the  comer?" 

He  crossed  over  to  her,  and  took  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"Hiding  your  face,  and  trembling  .  .  .?"  He  looked 
steadily  at  her. 

"I  will  go  away  in  a  moment,"  he  said  gently,  as  if  ask- 
ing forgiveness.     "I  never  thought  you  would  feel  it  so." 

"No,  no!"  said  the  girl  anxiously.     "It  wasn't  that.  .  .  ." 

"Get  into  bed  again  and  cover  yourself  up,  or  you'll  be 


40     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

cold.  And  I'll  sit  beside  you  a  little,  just  while  it's  dark, 
and  then  go  again." 

Shy  and  confused,  she  sprang  into  bed  and  drew  the 
clothes  over  her. 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment.  Then  pulling  up  a  chair 
beside  the  bed,  he  sat  down,  resting  one  elbow  on  the  pillow. 

'Tansy,  why  do  you  hide  your  eyes?  Are  you  afraid?  Is 
it  because  I  am  here?  Give  me  your  hand.  Who  was  it  that 
was  to  press  your  hand?     Do  you  remember? 

"Didn't  you  know  I  was  coming?  Hasn't  the  cuckoo 
been  saying  it  all  the  spring?  Didn't  the  daisies  tell  you 
he  was  to  come  this  summer?  And  now,  now  that  I  am 
here,  you  look  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  stranger.  Is  it  because 
it  has  come  true  so  suddenly?" 

She  pressed  his  hand.    "Oh,  you  are  not  like  the  others." 

"And  how  should  I  be?  You  did  not  care  for  them.  The 
one  you  have  been  waiting  for — was  he  to  be  like  them? 
Answer,  dark-eyed  Pansy-flower." 

She  clasped  his  wrist  with  both  her  hands,  and  drew  her- 
self closer  to  him. 

"And  I  have  been  waiting,"  he  whispered  tenderly,  "for 
whom,  do  you  think?  For  one  of  the  others?  I  have  seen 
more  than  I  can  count — but  the  moment  I  saw  you,  I  knew 
who  it  was  you  were  waiting  for,  and  who  it  was  I 
sought." 

The  girl  moved  uneasily.  There  was  a  sound  of  foot- 
steps outside,  and,  shadows  moved  behind  the  curtains  of  the 
window. 

"Oh!"  she  whispered,  shrinking  in  fear. 

"Is  that  some  of  them?"  asked  the  young  man  calmly. 


PANSY  41 

"Yes.  Oh,  hide  yourself,  hide  somewhere — they  light 
matches  outside  sometimes,  and  look  in." 

"I'll  not  move  a  step  for  any  of  them,"  he  said  resolutely, 
folding  his  arms.  "Don't  be  afraid,  little  one,  there's 
nothing  to  fear." 

A  dark  shadow  climbed  up  outside.  There  was  a  scrap- 
ing sound,  and  a  light  shone  into  the  room  for  a  moment. 

"There  he  is — sitting  there  as  if  he  was  master  of  the 
house!"     The  shadow  sprang  do^\^l  again. 

A  low  murmur  was  heard  outside,  and  footsteps  receding. 

A  moment  later,  the  whispering  voices  were  heard  again, 
and  steps  approaching.  Then  something  heavy  was  flung 
against  the  door  wdth  a  crash. 

"There!  Sleep  well,  my  dears!"  cried  a  scornful  voice 
outside.  A  chorus  of  laughter  followed,  the  footsteps  died 
away,  and  all  was  still. 

The  young  man  rose  to  his  feet.  "The  brutes !"  he  mut- 
tered, trembling  ^^dth  anger.  He  sprang  to  the  door,  lifted 
the  latch,  and  threw  his  weight  against  it.  The  door  did 
not  move.  His  blood  boiled,  and  again  he  flung  himself 
against  the  door.  It  creaked  under  the  shock,  but  the  bar 
outside  held  fast. 

"I  heard  who  it  was,  anyhow,"  he  said  significantly.  "I'll 
have  a  word  to  say  to  some  of  them  to-morrow." 

"Oh,"  cried  the  girl,  "now  everyone  will  know — and  we 
can't  even  get  out  now." 

"Don't  be  afraid,  dear.  If  one  way's  barred,  I'll  soon 
find  another." 

He  walked  to  the  window,  and  pressed  hard  against  the 
frame.    The  nails  gave  way,  and  the  woodwork  hung  loose. 

"There!     We  can  get  out  that  way  now.     I'll  take  care 


42    iSONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

of  the  flowers — and  I'll  see  those  fellows  hold  their  tongues 
— never  fear." 

Self-possessed  and  smiling,  he  came  back  to  the  bedside. 
"You  poor  little  thing,  so  easily  scared!  Not  afraid  now, 
are  you?" 

"No — not  now  you're  here  again." 

"Why,"  said  he  gaily,  "don't  you  see?  It  had  to  come 
like  this — or  else — it  would  have  been  just  like — any  of 
the  others!" 

They  both  laughed,  and  the  girl  looked  up  at  him  through 
her  tears.  A  faint  light  of  dawn  showed  through  from 
without. 

"And  you  haven't  heard  it  all  yet.  I'll  tell  you — it's  all 
different  from  anything  else — right  from  the  beginning.  I 
came  here  a  way  you'd  never  dream — by  way  of  the  river, 
and  past  the  jaws  of  death." 

"What — what  do  you  mean?" 

And  he  told  her  what  had  passed  among  the  rapids  that 
night,  when  the  floating  timber  jammed  against  the  Whirl- 
stone  Rock. 

"And  then  we  get  locked  in  here,  to  make  it  unlike  any- 
thing else  all  through.  And  that's  how  I  love  you.  Pansy — 
so  that  I  have  to  come  to  you  through  the  rapids  at  night, 
and  stay  with  you  behind  barred  doors.  But  are  you  mine, 
my  own?    You  haven't  said  so  yet." 

"Am  I?  Oh,  Olof,  how  can  you  ask!"  And  she  twined 
her  arms  lovingly  round  his  neck. 

The  growing  flush  of  dawn  stole  through  the  curtains, 
spreading  a  faint  gleam  of  rose  on  the  girl's  white  arms. 


PANSY  43 

"Red — red  isi^ll  that  is  beautiful  in  the  world,"  nodded 
the  fuchsia  to  the  balsamine. 

The  sun  rose  over  the  far-curving  slopes  on  either  side 
of  the  river,  filled  his  lungs  with  the  freshening  coolness  of 
the  night,  and  drank  his  morning  cup  of  glistening  dew. 
A  light  mist  still  hung  over  the  river-bed. 

Olof  strode  do^\Ti  the  slope  with  easy  step,  his  heart 
swelling  with  joy. 

Down  on  the  shore  below  the  rapids  stood  a  group  of 
men,  young  fellows  from  the  village,  who  came  down  at 
times  to  earn  a  little  extra  by  keeping  watch  over  the  timber 
at  night. 

Olof  cast  his  eyes  over  the  group,  and  his  pleasant  feeling 
of  contentment  vanished.  He  felt  himself  weighed  down 
as  by  a  burden.  But  a  little  while  since,  he  had  lifted  the 
heavy  beam  they  had  set  against  the  door  of  a  girl's  room, 
and  carried  it  back  to  the  bam,  the  weight  seeming  as 
nothing  to  him  in  his  gladness.     But  now  .  .  . 

'A  single  word,  a  look,  would  be  enough.  But  if  they 
just  go  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened — what  can  I  do?" 

A  dark  flush  burned  in  his  cheeks  as  he  approached  the 
group;  he  glanced  about  him  guardedly  under  his  brows. 

The  men  made  no  sign. 

Olof  picked  up  his  pole  from  the  grass,  and  began  slowly 
wiping  off  the  dew,  eyeing  the  men  watchfully  as  he  did  so. 

They  stood  about,  apparently  unconcerned. 

He  bit  his  lips.    Was  he  to  let  it  pass  off  like  this? 

He  walked  past  them,  with  a  burning  glance. 

As  he  did  so,  a  low  laugh  was  heard  on  the  edge  of  the 
group. 


44     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

Next  moment  came  the  sound  of  a  heavy  blow,  and  the 
jester  measured  his  length  on  the  grass. 

"You — what's  that  for?  Who  d'you  think  you  are,  young 
devil's  brat,  what?"     Two  men  came  at  him  with  a  rush. 

Olof  gripped  the  first  by  the  collar  and  crutch,  and 
flung  him  head  foremost  through  the  air.  Then,  taking 
the  other  as  smftly,  he  lifted  him  high  overhead,  and  threw 
him  down  like  a  crumpled  rag. 

"You  swine — you  filthy  brutes!"  His  voice  quivered  with 
rage,  his  eyes  burned  like  fire,  and  he  raised  his  clenched 
fists  threateningly.  "Come  on,  the  lot  of  you;  I've  more  to 
settle  with  you  yet." 

There  was  an  angry  murmur  from  the  crowd,  but  it  died 
away  as  a  calm,  manly  voice  spoke  up: 

"Seems  to  me,  young  man,  you've  settled  fairly  enough 
already  for  a  bit  of  fun  and  no  harm  meant.  And  if  you're 
as  good  a  man  as  I  take  you  for,  you'll  see  yourself  'twas 
not  done  the  way  you  seem  to  take  it.  We've  all  been  sort 
of  proud  of  that  little  lass,  and  till  now  there's  never  one  of 
us  passed  through  her  door,  though  there's  many  that  would 
if  they  could.  And  when  a  bit  of  a  chap  from  God  knows 
where  comes  along,  and  he's  found  sitting  in  there  like  her 
lord  and  master  .  .  ." 

"And  what's  that  to  you?"  Olof  stepped  forward 
threateningly. 

"Quiet,  lad,  you've  no  call  to  shout,"  went  on  the  other 
calmly.  "I'm  not  meaning  to  quarrel  with  you.  We've 
kno\\Ti  that  girl,  I  say,  since  we  were  youngsters  together, 
and  you're  a  stranger  here.  And  it's  like  to  do  her  harm. 
Leave  her  alone,   I  say,   and  don't  go  making  her  a  by- 


PANSY  45 

word  in  folk's  mouths,  for  the  sake  of  one  that  comes  and 
goes  so  light  and  easy  as  you." 

''Stranger,  you  say?"  Olof  crossed  his  arms  defiantly. 
"You  know  who  I  am  well  enough.  And  you're  the  men 
to  talk  of  a  girl's  honour  to  me — you  that  hang  about  out- 
side her  window  at  night — a  nice  lot  to  protect  her!  Mark 
my  words,  the  lot  of  you.  I  go  where  I  please,  if  'twas 
to  a  princess  in  a  palace.  And  I'll  go  the  way  I  went  last 
night  as  long  as  I'm  here  in  the  place.  And  as  sure  as  I 
stand  here,  if  one  of  you  shows  his  head  outside  that  win- 
dow, or  dares  to  say  a  coarse  word — ay,  or  so  much  as  a 
look  to  hurt  her,  I'll  thrash  him  till  he  can't  stand  on  his 
feet." 

He  turned  and  walked  proudly  up  the  hill.  The  men 
gazed  after  him  without  a  word. 


AT  SUNRISE 

THE  loveliest  hour?"  said  the  fuchsia  warmly. 
"Why,  now,  give  me  the  night — 'tis  the  best  of 
all." 

"I  love  it  too,"  answered  the  balsamine.  "Whispering 
here  as  we  are  now,  alone  in  the  dark,  only  knowing  the 
other  is  near,  only  seeing  the  gleam  of  each  other's  eyes.  But 
the  morning,  too,  is  beautiful — at  sunrise,  when  the  dew- 
drops  glisten  and  the  leaves  quiver  in  the  wakening  breeze." 

"True,  that  is  true.  All  times  are  beautiful,  all  life. 
The  morning,  when  the  cock  crows,  and  the  birds  twitter, 
and  the  children  newly  washed  come  out  to  play  in  the  yard. 
The  day,  too,  when  the  sunbeams  dance  over  the  floor,  and 
the  haymakers  come  from  the  fields,  with  sweat  on  their 
brows,  home  to  the  midday  meal.  And  the  evening,  when 
the  shadows  lengthen,  and  the  cows  come  home,  with  their 
bells  tinkling  along  the  fringe  of  the  wood.  But  there's 
nothing  can  compare  with  night — 'tis  at  night  we  find  our- 
selves, and  only  then." 

"Find  ourselves  .  .  .?"  echoed  the  balsamine.  "Ah,  yes, 
I  understand.  ..." 

"Ourselves — and  that  faint  song  of  the  heart  that  is  never 
heard  in  the  bright  fulness  of  day,"  the  fuchsia  we^t  on. 
"All  day  we  belong  to  the  world,  sharing  all  things  in  com- 
mon, having  nothing  of  our  own.  But  when  the  nighl  falls, 
then  our  own  time  is  near.  Softly  it  steals  through  the 
forest,  patiently  waits  in  a  comer  within  doors,  trembles 

46 


AT  SUNRISE  4.7 

mysteriously  in  the  air,  and  wakes  to  life  all  that  has  slept 
in  us  through  the  day.  It  comes  to  us  with  a  soft  glow,  in 
a  swooning  fragrance  of  flowers.  All  things  else  are  sleep- 
ing, none  are  astir  save  those.  .  .  ." 

A  woman's  arm  showed  faintly  white  through  the  gloom. 

'All  save  those  .  .  .?"  whispered  the  balsamine. 

"Save  those  who  find  themselves  and  waken  into  bloom." 

"Pansy — my  wonderful  delight — my  love!  You  are  like 
the  night — witching,  ensnaring,  all  the  mystery  of  a  sum- 
mer night,  when  the  summer  lightning  gleams." 

"I  never  knew  till  now  what  youth  is,  what  love  is. 
Great  and  beautiful,  coming  like  a  king  in  a  golden  chariot, 
beckoning,  calling,  leading  us  on." 

"Why  are  you  trembling,  love?  And  your  hands  are  hot, 
and  your  eyes — what  are  they  saying?" 

"I  don't  know — it's  very  hot.  No,  no,  it's  only  that  I'm 
too  happy.  ..." 

"Too  happy?" 

"No,  no.     I  don't  know  what  it  is.    Only  I  wish  .  .  ." 

"What  is  it?    Tell  me." 

"I  can't — I  don't  know  what  it  is.     I  .  .  ." 

"But  tell  me — can't  you  tell  me  what  it  is?" 

"I  can't  say  it.     I— I'm  frightened." 

"Frightened?     Why — have  I  frightened  you?" 

"You? — no,  how  could  you?     Only  .  .  ." 

"Tell  me,  then.  Tell  me.  Only  a  word,  and  I  shall 
know." 

"I'm   frightened — no,   I   can't  say  it.      Only Oh,   I 

love  you,  if  you  knew  how  I  love  you.  ..." 


48     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"The  loveliest  hour  I  ever  knew,"  whispered  the  balsamine 
again,  "was  when  I  bloomed  for  the  first  time — when  my 
petals  opened,  and  the  sun  came  and  kissed  right  into  my 
heart." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  murmured  the  fuchsia.  "And  I  that 
am  blooming  now  for  the  second  time — should  I  not  know? 
We  put  forth  flowers  again,  and  it  is  always  sweet,  but 
never  like  the  first  time  of  all — nothing  can  ever  be  like 
that.  For  it  is  all  a  mystery  then;  the  mantle  of  some- 
thing wonderful  and  unknown  is  over  us.  And  we  feel  it 
and  thrill  at  what  is  coming,  and  ask  ourselves — will  it  be 
to-day?  Hoping  and  fearing — and  knowing  all  the  time 
that  it  will  come.  Never  a  thought  of  past  or  future,  only 
for  the  hour  that  is  upon  us  .  .  .  until  at  last  it  comes,  it 
comes — ^petals  that  blush  and  unfold,  and  all  things  else 
seem  to  fade  away,  ^nd  we  melt  into  a  glory  of  warmth 
and  light." 

•  •••••• 

The  Spirit  of  Joy  stood  quietly  smiling  by  the  bed. 

The  girl's  loose  hair  flowed  like  black  silk  over  the  pil- 
low; his  head  was  resting  there. 

They  held  each  other's  hands  and  looked  deep  into  each 
other's  eyes.  The  Spirit  of  Joy  had  stood  there  long,  but 
had  not  heard  them  speak  a  word — only  seen  them  lying 
there  in  silence,  smiling  tenderly  to  each  other. 

The  sun  rose  slowly  over  the  ridge  of  hills,  but  once 
clear  of  the  summit  its  rays  shot  suddenly  down  across 
the  intervening  landscape,  in  through  the  window. 

The  girl  looked  up;  the  sun  was  laughing  full  in  her 
eyes. 


AT  SUNRISE  49 

She  sat  up  in  bed,  as  if  waking  from  a  deep  sleep;  all 
things  seemed  strange  and  unexpected. 

"Has  the  sun  eyes  too,  I  wonder?  .  .  .  Has  it  been  watch- 
ing me  all  these  mornings?"  .  .  . 

After  a  little  while  she  raised  her  head,  and  looked  up 
shyly  once  more. 

The  sun  was  watching  her  with  a  great  questioning  glance 
— as  a  mother  looks  when  she  does  not  speak,  but  questions 
with  her  eyes  alone. 

The  girl  felt  a  shock,  as  if  the  blood  had  ceased  to  flow  in 
her  veins;  she  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  looked  up  no  more. 
Two  great  pearly  tears  quivered  on  her  lashes. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  her  lover  in  dismay^  half  rising 
in  his  turn.  "What  is  it,  Pansy?"  He  pressed  her  ten- 
derly to  him.     "Why  are  your  eyes  cast  down?" 

The  teardrops  trembled  a  moment  and  fell;  the  girl 
turned,  and  hid  her  face  in  the  pillow. 

"Pansy,  oh,  my  love!"  he  whispered,  filled  with  a  burn- 
ing desire  to  comfort  her. 

The  girl's  bare  shoulders  quivered,  and  her  breast  heaved 
with  suppressed  sobs. 

It  was  hke  a  cold  iron  through  his  soul — as  if  he  had 
been  soaring  in  the  bluest  heights,  to  fall  now,  broken- 
winged,  among  sharp  rocks,  hearing  sounds  of  misery  on 
every  side. 

Heavily  he  threw  himself  down,  beside  her,  and  hid  his 
face  in  her  dark  hair. 

Two  children  of  men,  with  shoulders  heaving  and  faces 
wet  with  tears.  .  .  .   The  room  seemed  full  of  their  sighing. 
The  sun  turned  away  and  hid  his  darkened  face. 


50     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"It  is  sorrow,"  whispered  the  fudisia,  and  a  red  tear 
fell  on  the  window-sill  below. 

And  yet  beneath  the  veil  of  sorrow  showed  a  warm  red 
glow — the  great  secret  that  was  between  them.  It  was  as 
if  their  eyes  were  opened,  and  they  saw  each  other  truly  for 
the  first  time — no  longer  a  youth  and  a  maiden,  but  two 
human  creatures  thrilled  with  sorrow  and  joy  in  the  pale 
dawn. 

"Can  you  ever  forgive  me?"  he  asked,  his  voice  trembling. 

"Forgive  .  .  .?"  echoed  the  girl,  and  threw  her  arms 
round  his  neck. 

"And  you  will  not  think  of  me  with  bitterness?"  he  asked 
again. 

"How  could  I  ever  think  of  you  with  bitterness — you 
who  have  been  everything  to  me?  But  why  must  you  go 
away  now?" 

"Ay,  why  must  we  say  good-bye  now?"  said  he,  with  a 
sigh,  as  if  hardly  knowing  what  he  said. 

"If  you  only  knew  how  I  shall  miss  you  .  .  ." 

"And  if  yoii  knew.  .  .  .  O  Heaven!  But  what  can  I 
do?" 

"Don't  be  unhappy  for  my  sake;  I  know  you  can  do 
nothing  to  change  it.  And  how  can  I  ask  more  of  you, 
after  all  you  have  given  me?  If  only  I  could  see  you 
again  some  time;  only  once,  once  even  after  many  years — 
if  I  only  could  .  .  ." 

"Perhaps  I  may  come  one  day — just  to  see  you  .  .  ." 

"Come,  come!     I  shall  wait  for  you  week  after  week." 


AT  SUNRISE  51 

Slowly  he  dre^v  out  his  watch,  looked  at  it,  and  showed 
it  to  the  girl. 

"Yes,  you  must  go  now.  But  how  can  I  ever  let  you 
go?" 

"How  can  I  ever  go?  Oh,  if  only  it  were  always  night, 
and  day  never  to  come!" 

"Yes — the  last,  long  night — and  after  that  the  Judg- 
ment. I  should  not  fear  it  now.  Only  a  minute — only  a 
minute  more.  One  more  look — there — and  now  I  can  never 
forget." 

"Pansy,  Pansy,"  he  murmured  tenderly.  But  his  breast 
heaved  with  distress — it  was  as  if  the  latch  had  been  torn 
from  the  door,  leaving  it  open  to  all  who  cared.  "One  thing 
you  must  promise  me — after  this.  .  .  ."  His  voice  was 
like  that  of  a  drowning  man.  "Never  to  care  for  any  other 
but  the  one  you  choose  some  day,  for  life." 

"How  should  I  ever  care  for  any  other?"  said  the  girl 
wonderingly.  "And  even  then  I  shall  love  you  just  the 
same — even  then." 

"No,  no,  no!  It  would  be  worse  than  all.  When  you 
choose  for  life  you  must  give  all  your  love." 

"No  need  to  tell  me  that,"  said  the  girl  in  a  low  voice 
that  thrilled  him  with  pleasure  and  yet  heightened  his  fears. 

"Promise  me!  You  don't  know  why  I  ask  you,  why  I 
beg  of  you  to  promise  that.  It  is  not  for  my  own  sake,"  he 
urged. 

"I  promised  you  that  long  ago — the  first  time  we  ever 
met,"  said  the  girl,  and  cowered  close  to  him. 

They  drew  apart,  and  stood  up. 

Holding  him  by  the  hand,  she  followed  him  to  the  door. 
Then  flinging  her  arms  about  his  neck,  she  clung  to  him 


62     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

as  if  she  would  never  let  him  go.  He  took  her  in  his  arms, 
himself  on  the  point  of  swooning;  he  felt  her  hair  w^et  with 
tears  against  his  cheek,  and  their  lips  met. 

The  girl's  head  was  bent  back,  looking,  not  into  his 
eyes  as  before,  but  upward.  And  he  saw  how  the  look  in  her 
eyes  changed,  first  to  ineffable  tenderness,  then  to  pious 
prayer — until  it  seemed  freed  from  all  earth,  gazing  at  some 
blessed  vision  afar  off.  As  long  as  she  stood  thus  he  could 
not  move  a  limb.  Then  her  eyelids  quivered,  closed — and 
sh«  drew  her  lips  away. 

He  looked  at  them,  saw  a  white,  bloodless  line — and  he 
felt  in  that  moment  as  if  some  ineradicable,  eternal  seal  had 
been  pressed  upon  his  own. 

"I  can't  leave  you  like  this!"  he  cried  desperately.  "Look! 
To-night  we  shall  be  at  Kirveskallio — I  can  come  from  there. 
And  I  will  come  every  night  as  long  as  we  are  within 
reach." 

The  girl's  face  lit  with  a  pale  gleam  as  of  autumn  sun- 
light, but  she  said  no  word.  Only  looked  at  him  strangely, 
as  he  had  never  seen  her  look  before — and  stood  there,  gaz- 
ing at  him  still,  as  he  passed  out. 


ROWAN 

ROWAN — do   you   know   why   I    call   you   so?"   he 
asked,  holding  the  girl's  hand  clasped  in  his. 
"It  must  have  been  because  I  blushed  so  when 
you  spoke  to  me  first,"  she  answered  shyly. 

"No,  no!     Guess  again." 

"I  can't  guess,  I'm  sure.  I  never  thought  why  it  was — 
only  that  it  was  a  pretty  name,  and  nice  of  you  to  call 
me  so." 

"Did  you  think  I  should  give  you  an  ugly  name?"  said 
the  young  man,  with  a  laugh.  "But  there's  much  in  that 
name,  if  you  only  knew." 

"Perhaps  I  know."  She  looked  at  him  trustingly  as  she 
spoke. 

"Not  altogether.  But  never  mind — I'll  tell  you  some  of 
it,  though.  See,  this  last  spring  was  all  so  wonderful  to 
me,  somehow,  and  I  was  happy  just  to  be  alive.  But  then 
came  the  summer,  and  autumn:  the  grass  began  to  wither, 
and  the  leaves  turned  yellow,  and  it  made  my  heart  ache 
to  see." 

"You  weren't  happy  last  summer?"  she  asked  tenderly. 

"No.  You  see,  I  could  hot  forget  the  spring  that  had 
been  so  wonderful,  and  I  was  longing  for  it  all  the  time. 
If  I'd  stayed  in  the  same  place,  then  perhaps  .  .  .  But  I'm 
a  wanderer,  once  and  for  all  .  .  ." 

"Why  do  you  never  stay  anywhere?" 

53 


54     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"  'Tis  my  nature,  I  suppose,"  he  answered,  staring  before 
him. 

"And  where  were  you — that  time?"  asked  the  girl  timidly, 
watching  his  face. 

"Oh,  a  long  way  off.  Don't  ask  of  that.  I'm  not  think- 
ing of  that  spring  now  any  more.  It  was  only  to  tell  you — 
who  it  was  showed  me  that  the  autumn  can  be  lovely,  too." 

"Did  someone  show  you  that?" 

"Yes,  someone  showed  me — or,  rather,  I  saw  it  the  moment 
I  set  eyes  on  her." 

He  took  the  girl's  hands  in  his,  and  looked  into  her 
eyes. 

"It  was  a  little  cluster  of  rowan  berries.  When  I  saw 
you,  you  were  like  a  young  red  rowan  on  the  hillside.  The 
birch  was  fading  already,  the  ash  stood  solemn  and  dull, 
but  you  were  there  witli  the  red  berries,  calling  to  me — no, 
not  calling,  but  I  saw  you.  And  I  stood  and  looked  as  if 
a  miracle  had  come,  and  said  to  myself,  should  I  speak  to 
her,  or  just  go  by?" 

"If  you  had  just  gone  by  .  .  ." 

"I  thought  of  going  by — seeing  I'm  one  that  has  no  right 
ever  to  stay.  ...  I  couldn't  see  if  it  was  right  to  stop  and 
look  at  you." 

"Now  I  don't  quite  understand." 

"You  can't  understand  it  at  all — 'twas  only  something 
I  was  trying  to  think  out  myself.  .  .  .  But  I  did  stop  and 
look — and  'tis  thanks  to  that  I've  had  this  lovely  autumn, 
after  all." 

"And  I,  too,"  whispered  the  girl. 

"Yes,  thanks  to  you,  I  have  learned  that  autumn  can  be 
beautiful  as  well;   lovelier  even  than  the  spring — for  the 


ROWAN  66 

autumn  is  cooler,  calmer,  and  gentler  than  the  spring. 
And  it  was  then  I  learned  for  the  first  time  what  it  is  that 
makes  life  beautiful — what  it  is  that  human  beings  seek." 

The  girl  has  slipped  down  to  the  ground,  and  sat  now 
looking  up  at  him,  resting  her  arms  on  his  knees. 

"Tell  me  more — more  about  that.  It's  so  pretty  to  hear, 
and  I  understand  it  all,  though  I  could  never  say  it  that 
way  myself." 

"Yes,  you  know,  and  all  know,  that  there  is  nothing  beau- 
tiful in  life  but  that  one  thing — and  all  of  us  live  for  that, 
and  nothing  else.  Without  that  we  have  only  our  hands 
and  work  for  them,  our  teeth  and  food  for  them;  but,  when 
that  comes,  all  is  changed.  You  have  seen  yourself,  and 
felt,  how  it  changes  everj'thing." 

"Oh,  have  I  not!     How  could  I  help  it?" 

"How  sad  faces  learn  to  smile,  and  eyes  to  speak,  and 
how  we  learn  a  new  tongue  altogether.  Even  the  voice  is 
changed,  to  a  silvery  ring.  All  the  world  is  changed,  to 
something  lovelier — and  we  ourselves  grow  beautiful  be- 
yond words." 

"Yes,  yes — Olof,  how  wonderful  of  you!  It  is  all  like  a 
beautiful  dream." 

"Do  you  remember  the  time  when  you  first  began  to  care 
for  me?" 

"I  shall  always  remember  that  time — always." 

"It  was  pretty  to  watch — how  you  blushed  and  paled,  and 
blushed  again,  and  never  knew  which  way  to  turn  your  eyes, 
and  your  heart  throbbed,  and  you  never  dared  confess  even 
to  yourself  what  made  it  so.  I  watched  you  then,  and  I 
found  myself  wishing  you  might  not  see  me  at  all,  only  that 
I  might  watch  you  for  ever  from  some  secret  place." 


66     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  know  how  it  hurt,  all  the  same — ^how 
anxious  I  was  all  the  time — I  could  not  have  borne  it  long, 
I  know." 

"Yes — I  understand.  .  .  .  And  you  were  more  beautiful 
still  when  you  opened  your  heart  to  me.  I  read  in  your 
eyes  as  in  an  open  book,  and  it  made  life  bright  and  beauti- 
ful again  for  me." 

"I — I  have  done  nothing  at  all  .  .  ."  said  the  girl,  blush- 
ing, and  looking  dovm.  But  she  raised  her  head  again, 
laid  one  hand  on  his  knee,  and  looked  questioningly  at 
him. 

He  laughed  in  reply. 

Slowly  she  drew  herself  up  into  his  embrace,  and  put  her 
arms  about  his  neck. 

"May  I  sit  here  like  this?" 

"Yes,  you  may — like  this,"  said  he,  slipping  an  arm 
round  her  waist. 

The  girl's  face  drew  nearer  to  his  own,  still  questioning. 

"No,  no,"  he  murmured,  and  laid  one  hand  gently  on  her 
shoulder,  as  if  seeking  tenderly  to  hold  her  back. 

"Why  not?"   asked  the  girl  earnestly. 

"Because  it  is  better  so.  It  would  only  hurt  you  more 
when  we  had  to  say  good-bye — after." 

"Oh,  but  that's  just  why!"  she  cried  passionately. 

"No,  no — I  ask  it  of  you,"  said  he.  And,  taking  the 
girl's  head  in  his  two  hands,  he  kissed  her  softly  on  the 
brow. 

A  gleam  of  infinite  tenderness  shone  in  her  eyes,  but  she 
did  not  speak,  only  bowed  her  head  and  nestled  close  to  his 
breast. 

A  strange  joy  thrilled  him — he  felt  he  had  won  a  victory 


ROWAN  67 

over  himself.  Through  his  thin  shirt  he  could  feel  the  girl's 
warm  breath  like  a  wave  of  summer  sunshine,  and,  smiling 
with  happiness,  he  stroked  her  hair. 

It  was  in  his  mind  to  ask  her  if  she  did  not  think  herself 
it  was  best  as  he  said,  when  suddenly,  ere  he  could  speak, 
a  burning  gasp  struck  him  like  a  flame;  the  girl's  hot  lips 
were  pressing  fiery  kisses  on  his  breast;  her  arms  slipped 
from  his  neck  and  twined  themselves  close  about  his  waist. 

"God  in  heaven — be  careful,  child!"  He  took  her  arms 
and  tried  to  draw  himself  away.  But,  ere  he  could  loosen 
her  hold,  he  felt  his  body  thrill  in  answer  to  her  passionate 
caress — a  torrent  of  passion  rose  within  him:  all  thought  of 
self-restraint  was  whirled  away. 

"Love,  love!"  he  gasped,  his  voice  almost  breaking  in  teai:s. 
He  drew  her  up  to  him,  and  closed  her  thirsting  lips  with 
his  o^\Ti,  crushing  her  body  against  his  own  till  both  lay 
breathless.  .  .  . 


THE  FIRST  SNOWFALL 

THIS  year,  it  came  later  than  usual — not  until  just 
before  Christmas.    And  when  it  did  come,  it  was 
like  a  rain  of  silver. 
The  children  greeted  it  with  joyful  shouts  and  a  wild 
throwing  of  snowballs;  the  women  carried  shovelfuls  of  snow 
into  the  rooms  and  spread  it  on  the  floor  before  sweeping; 
the  men  hung  tinkling  bells  to  their  horses'  harness. 

Men  hurried  briskly  along  the  forest  tracks,  and  the  great 
high  road  to  the  town  was  packed  with  an  unbroken  throng 
of  pilgrims.  All  coming  and  going  exchanged  greetings, 
even  with  strangers — a  gay  wave  of  the  hand  and  a  few 
words  about  the  snow. 

Twilight  was  falling. 

Olof  had  just  come  in  from  his  work  in  the  forest,  and 
was  sitting  in  his  little  room  in  the  peasant's  hut  where  he 
was  quartered.  An  elderly  man  stepped  in — a  farmer  from 
the  same  village. 

"Evening — and  greetings  from  the  town." 

"Evening,"  said  Olof  heartily.    "Come  in  and  sit  down." 

"I've  little  time  to  sit.  I'd  a  message  for  you,  that  was 
all.  Stopped  at  Valimaki  on  the  way  out,  and  someone 
gave  me  this  for  you." 

He  took  out  a  small  packet  and  handed  it  across. 

Olof  blushed  up  to  the  eyes,  and  stammered  a  word  of 

thanks. 

58 

\ 


THE  FIRST  SNOWFALL  69 

The  messenger  pretended  not  to  notice  his  confusion,  and 
went  on,  smiling: 

"I  asked  if  maybe  there  was  any  message  besides,  and  they 
said  no,  just  give  it  you  as  it  was — but  happen  you'd  like 
to  hear  how  'twas  given  .  .  .?" 

"Go  on — tell  me,"  said  the  young  man,  still  with  some 
embarrassment. 

"Well,  I  pulled  up  there,  as  I  said,  and  started  off  again 
just  towards  dusk  about.  Got  down  just  past  the  meadow 
below  the  house,  and  hears  someone  running  after.  Thought 
maybe  I'd  left  something  behind,  and  so  I  stopped.  Twas 
a  neat  little  maid,  with  red  cheeks,  and  no  kerchief  on  her 
head.      'What's  wrong?'  says  I. 

"  'Nothing,'  says  the  little  maid,  and  looks  down  at  her 
shoes.  'Only  you  said — didn't  you  say  Olof  was  staying 
your  way  just  now?' 

"Well,  that  was  right  enough,  and  I  said  so.  'And  what 
then?' 

"  'Why,'  says  she,  'I  know  him — and  I'd  a  message  for 
him.' 

"  'Aha,'  says  I,  and  laughed  a  bit. 

"  '  'Twas  no  more  than  a  greeting,'  says  she,  all  of  a 
hurry  like. 

"Why,  then,  I  could  carry  it,  'twas  an  easy  matter  enough. 

"  'Can  I  trust  you?'  says  the  girl. 

"  'Why,  d'you  think  I'd  lose  it  on  the  way?'  says  I. 

"  'If  you  did — or  if  you  went  and  told  about  it  .  .  .' 

"  'Nay,'  says  I.  'I'm  an  old  man,  my  dear,  and  not  given 
to  playing  tricks  that  away.' 

"  'Yes,  I  know,'  says  she.  'I  can  trust  you.'  And  then 
she  gives  me  this. 


60    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 


U   I'- 
ll n 


'That's  for  him?'  says  I.     'Give  it  him  just  as  it  is?' 
'Yes,     You  won't  open  it,  I  know.    Though,  to  be  sure, 
anyone  can  tell  what's  inside.     But  be  sure  no  one  sees 
you  give  it  him.    There's  no  message,  only  just  that.' 

"Well,  I  was  just  on  the  way  to  tell  her  I'd  sense  enough 
to  do  that  without  being  asked — but  all  of  a  sudden  she's  off, 
racing  away  with  her  hair  flying  behind.  Ay,  that  was  the 
way  of  it,  and  now  I've  told  you,  I'll  be  off." 

"Good-night,  then,"  said  Olof.    "And  many  thanks." 

Olof  sank  into  a  chair  by  the  table,  holding  the  packet 
in  his  hand.  He  knew  well  enough  what  was  inside,  but 
hesitated  to  open  it.  He  was  tliinking  of  what  had  hap- 
pened there — he  could  see  it  himself  as  in  a  vision.  A 
bright-eyed  girl,  slight  of  figure,  hardly  more  than  a  child, 
sat  at  one  end  of  the  room,  and  at  the  other  a  traveller, 
eating  from  the  red-painted  box  in  which  he  carried  his 
food.  The  man  spoke  of  the  weather,  how  the  first  snow 
had  come,  and  it  was  good  going  underfoot;  where  he  came 
from,  too,  the  woodcutters  had  already  started  work.  More 
work  than  usual  this  season,  and  the  gang  foreman  had  taken 
on  a  new  hand,  a  young  fellow — Olof  was  his  name. 

And  the  girl  all  but  cries  his  name  aloud,  blushes  vio- 
lently, and  lays  down  her  work  to  listen.  But  the  traveller 
says  no  more  of  what  she  is  longing  to  hear,  only  talks 
of  this  and  that — all  manner  of  trifling  things.  The  girl 
is  restless,  uncertain  what  to  do — but  she  must  do  something. 
And  she  watches  the  man's  face  closely  as  he  sits  smoking 
his  pipe  on  the  bench.  "He  looks  honest,  and  kindly,"  she 
thinks  to  herself.    "I  could  trust  him,  I  know." 

And  then  quietly  she  slips  off  to  her  own  room,  as  if  to 
fetch  something,  and  takes  something  from  a  drawer — a  lit- 


PTHE  FIRST  SNO^\TALL  61 

tie  thing  she  has  kept  there  long.  Looks  for  some  paper, 
or  a  bag,  to  put  it  in,  searches  and  looks  again,  and  finds 
it  at  last,  packs  it  up  and  ties  it  round  with  string,  tying 
the  hardest  knot  she  can  manage,  and  cutting  the  ends  off 
close,  so  it  can't  be  opened  without  being  seen — and  laughs 
to  herself. 

Then  she  goes  back  to  the  room,  with  the  thing  in  her 
pocket.    The  traveller  is  getting  ready  to  go. 

"  Tis  time  to  mix  the  cattle  food,"  says  the  girl.  And 
from  the  kitchen  window  she  can  see  the  traveller  come  out 
to  his  horse  and  make  ready  to  start.  He  drives  out  of  the 
yard  and  do\\Ti  the  road  at  a  trot.  "Now!"  says  she  to 
herself,  and  races  off  after  him. 

Olof  can  see  her  as  she  runs — how  her  breast  heaves  as 
she  comes  up  with  the  cart  and  hails  the  driver.  How  she 
blushes  and  looks  down,  and  then,  having  gained  her  pur- 
pose, runs  off  again  too  full  of  joy  even  to  thank  the  mes- 
senger, running  a  race,  as  it  were,  with  her  o^^^l  delight. 
^  And  then,  once  back  at  the  house,  she  looks  round  anxiously 
to  every  side,  lest  any  should  have  seen  her,  and  goes  in 
to  her  work  again.   .  .  . 

Filled  with  a  quiet  joy,  Olof  opens  the  packet. 

A  big,  dark  red  apple  carries  her  greeting. 

"The  very  colour  of  the  rowans  1"  he  cries — as  if  the  girl 
had  chosen  that  very  one  from  a  great  store,  though  he  knows 
well  enough  it  was  likely  the  only  one  she  had. 

And  his  heart  swells  with  joy  and  pride  at  the  thought. 
"Was  there  ever  such  a  greeting — or  such  a  girl!" 

Once  more  his  mind  goes  back  to  that  happy  autumn;  he 
turns  the  apple  in  his  hand  caressingly,  and  looks  out 
through  the  window  and  smiles. 


62    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

Then,  he  notices  that  the  apple  seems  harder  to  the 
touch  in  one  place,  as  if  to  call  his  attention  to  something. 
He  looks  at  it  again,  and  sees  that  the  skin  on  one  side 
is  raised,  with  a  cut  all  round,  as  if  done  with  a  knife. 
He  lifts  the  flap  of  skin,  and  it  comes  away  like  a  lid;  under- 
neath is  a  folded  slip  of  paper. 

"More!"  he  cries,  and  with  trembling  hands,  with  joy 
at  heart,  he  unfolds  it.  Only  a  tiny  fragment,  and  on  one 
side  a  few  words  awkwardly  traced  with  pencil: 

"Now  I  know  what  it  is  to  be  sad.    Have 
you  quite  forgotten  your  Rowan?    I  think  of 
you  every  night  when  I  go  to  sleep." 

The  apple  falls  into  his  lap,  the  paper  trembles  in  his 
hand,  and  a  moisture  dims  his  eyes. 

He  looks  up.  Great  soft  snowflakes  are  dropping  slowly 
to  the  ground. 

Minutes  pass.  The  twilight  deepens,  till  at  last  all  is 
darkness,  but  he  sits  there  still  looking  out,  with  the  paper 
in  his  hand. 

He  can  no  longer  see — but  he  feels  how  the  great  soft 
snowflakes  are  still  falling.  .  .  . 


DAISY 

THE  daisy  bloomed  on  the  window-sill  ...  in  the 
window  of  a  little  room. 
In  spring  and  summer  the  daisy  blooms — this 
one  bloomed  in  the  winter  too. 

"And  I  know,  and  you  know  why  you  bloom  in  the  win- 
ter," said  the  girl.     "  'Tis  to  smile  at  him  in  greeting." 

The  daisy  blooms  only  a  few  months  together  .  .  .  this 
one  was  in  flower  already  when  Christmas  came,  and 
flowered  the  rest  of  the  winter  through,  more  beautiful  every 
day. 

"And  I  know,  and  you  know  how  long  you  will  bloom. 
'Twas  when  I  set  you  here  at  first  it  all  began  ,  .  .  and 
when  he  is  gone,  and  there's  none  for  you  to  smile  at  any 
more,  then  it  will  all  be  over." 

The  girl  bent  lower  over  the  flower. 

"She  has  but  a  single  flower — so  neat  and  sweet,"  she 
whispered,  pressing  her  delicate  lips  to  the  pale  posy  petals 
just  unfolded. 

"She  has  but  a  single  friend — so  tender  and  dear,"  smiled 
the  flower  in  answer,  nodding  slowly  over  toward  the  fields. 

A  tall  youth  on  ski  came  gliding  by,  his  cap  at  the  back 
of  his  head,  and  a  knapsack  strapped  at  his  shoulders. 

"At  last!"  cried  the  girl,  and  jumping  down,  ran  out 
through  the  passage  to  the  steps  in  front  of  the  house. 

"Daisy!"    said   the   newcomer.      His    voice   was   hardly 

63 


64    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

audible,  but  his  eyes  spoke  plainly  enough,  as  he  stepped 
up  and  set  his  ski  and  staves  against  the  wall. 

The  girl  answered  with  a  nod  and  a  radiant  smile. 

He  hurried  up  the  steps,  and  stood  beside  her. 

"Daisy  1"  he  said  again,  and  pressed  his  cold  hands  play- 
fully against  her  cheeks. 

"No,  thank  you!"  cried  the  girl  merrily,  grasping  his 
wrists.  "I've  been  waiting  for  you,  though,  ever  so  long. 
Mother's  gone  in  to  to\\Ti,  and  the  men  haven't  come  back 
from  the  woods  yet." 

"And  you've  been  left  all  alone,  and  horribly  frightened, 
of  course,"  laughed  the  young  man,  holding  the  girl's  head 
between  his  hands,  and  pushing  her  before  him  in  through 
the  doorway. 

They  went  inside,  and  he  hung  up  his  knapsack  on  the 
wall. 

"Guess  what  I've  been  thinking  of  to-day  all  the  way 
home?" 

"Oh,  you  know  I  never  can  guess  your  riddles.  What 
is  it?" 

"Only" — he  drew  her  down,  on  the  seat  beside  him — 
"that  you  ought  to  have  a  pair  of  ski  too.  If  only  I  can  get 
hold  of  some  proper  wood,  I'll  make  a  pair  in  no  time." 

"No,  no,  'tis  not  worth  it.  And  I  can't  use  them  if  you 
did." 

"That's  just  why.  You've  got  to  learn.  And  then  you'll 
be  able  to  come  out  with  me.  Come  out  to  the  forest  one 
day,  and  I'll  show  you  something." 

"What'll  that  be,  I'd  like  to  know?  Only  your  ugly  old 
stacks  of  wood." 

"Why,  as  to  that,  they're  none  so  ugly,  after  all.     And 


DAISY  66 

I'll  lift  you  up  and  set  you  on  top  of  the  highest  of  all.  .  .  . 
No,  that  wasn't  what  I  meant  But  you  ought  to  see  .  .  . 
Out  there  in  the  forest,  it's  a  different  world  altogether. 
Roads  and  villages  of  its  own — ay,  and  churcl.  and 
pastors.  .  .  ." 

"What  nonsense  you  do  talk!"  laughed  the  girl. 

"  'Tis  true,  though,  for  all  that.  Come  out  with  me, 
and  see  if  it's  not  as  I  say.  .  .  .  Come  now,  there's  plenty 
of  time." 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?  Of  course  we  couldn't  go 
now — nor  any  other  time." 

"Yes,  we  can.    And  now  best  of  all." 

He  went  across  to  tlie  corner  by  the  cupboard,  took  a 
woollen  wrap  that  had  been  hung  on  the  line  to  dry,  and 
fastened  it  laughingly  round  her  head. 

"There#— now  we're  ready." 

The  girl  laughed  doubtfully,  took  off  the  wrap  again,  and 
stood  hesitating. 

"Oh I  Don't  you  understand  yet?"  He  took  the  wrap 
and  twisted  it  in  his  hands.  "You've  got  to  pretend.  It's 
two  weeks  gone  now,  and  your  ski  are  all  ready.  We've 
tried  them  once  or  twice  out  in  the  meadow,  and  you  manage 
first-rate,  able  to  go  anywhere.  And  so  off  we  go.  ... 
Look  there  1" 

The  girl  joined  in  the  game.  She  moved  across  to  the 
window,  and  looked  out  into  the  yard. 

"There  I  I've  set  the  ski  all  ready,  and  we  put  them 
on.  Father  and  mother  ^nd  brothers  looking  out  to  see  us 
start.    There — that's  mother  knocking  at  the  window. 

"  'Be  careful  not  to  take  her  up  the  big  hilk,'  says  mother. 
'She'll  fall  and  hurt  herself  if  you  dol' 


66    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"And  I  tell  her  we're  going  up  to  the  very  top  of  the  big- 
gest hill  we  can  find.    And  off  we  go. 

"And  you  get  along  splendidly.  Fall — not  a  bit  of  itl 
Off  wc  ^o  to  the  other  end  of  the  meadow,  and  then  through 
the  little  copse  out  on  the  Hirvisuo — all  as  easy  as  play. 

"Then  we  come  to  a  fence — and  that's  rather  more  than 
you  can  manage.  Nothing  for  it  but  I  must  pick  you  up 
and  lift  you  over — and  you  put  your  arms  round  me  so 
prettily  .  .  ." 

Here  the  girl  broke  in  hastily:  "No,  no!  I  shall  turn 
back  if  you  go  on  like  that !" 

"No,  you  mustn't.  It's  a  very  high  fence,  this  one.  You 
can  get  over  the  others,  perhaps,  by  yourself.  We'll  see. — 
And  so  we  go  on,  and  make  our  way  up  the  slope  of  Kaltasen- 
maki — it's  a  heavy  climb  there.  But  you  know  the  ground 
— ^you've  fetched  the  cows  home  from  there  many  a  time. 
And  it's  just  there  the  woodcutting  begins. 

"Now  we're  up  at  the  top.  It's  early  morning,  of  course, 
I  forgot  that.  The  sun's  just  up,  and  the  snow  all  glittering 
underfoot  and  the  frost  like  stars  hung  in  the  branches  over- 
head. There!  look  at  the  trees  over  there  on  the  other  side. 
All  white  and  clean  and  lovely — just  like  you.  And  stars 
of  frost  there  too,  sparkling  like  your  eyes.  And  you  think 
it's  lovely  too — never  dreamed  the  forest  was  like  that.  And 
of  course  you  haven't — for  nobody  can  till  they've  seen  it 
for  themselves.  There!  look  at  that  great  road  there  lower 
down — that's  the  main  track,  where  all  the  heavy  timber  goes 
— ^hauled  up  from  a  dozen  little  paths  either  side — a  score 
of  loads  sometimes,  one  after  another.  And  some  of  the 
men  come  singing,  or  whistling,  some  talking  and  calling 
out  to  the  rest;  'tis  a  merry  business  carting  down  the  timber 


DAISY  67 

loads  to  the  river.  And  see  there  on  the  slope — a  couple  of 
empty  sledges  on  the  way  back — isn't  it  fine? 

'And  of  course  you  say  it  is,  and  it  was  true  all  I  told  you 
about  the  forest  before.  And  it  gets  finer  as  we  go  on — you 
can  hear  the  axe  at  work  all  round  about,  echoing  over  across 
the  valley.     Now  we  must  go  and  say  a  word  to  the  men. 

"But  you  don't  want  to,  but  I  say  we  must,  and  you  can 
stay  behind  a  little  if  you  like.  And  so  off  we  go  down 
the  hillside — hey,  what  a  pace !  And  up  the  next,  and  there 
we  are  on  the  top.  We  can  see  them  at  work  down  in  the  val- 
ley below.  It  looks  like  a  lot  of  ants  at  work,  you  think. 
And  so  it  does.  And  we  go  across,  and  you've  got  to  be 
careful  and  show  how  nicely  you  can  go.  The  snow's  all 
frozen,  and  creaks  underfoot;  the  men  look  up,  and  the 
stupid  ones  stand  staring  open-mouthed.  And  I  bid  them 
good-day,  and  go  up  to  them  a  little  ahead,  and  they  answer 
again,  and  some  of  them  touch  their  caps,  not  knowing 
quite  what  to  do.  All  of  them  look  astonished — what's  this 
come  to  see  them  now?  And  I  tell  them  it's  just  a  young 
lady  from  the  town,  come  out  to  see  a  bit  of  the  country,  and 
I'm  showing  her  round.  They  understand  that  all  right. 
And  then  I  tell  them  you're  a  foreigner,  and  can't  speak  a 
word  of  their  tongue,  and  that's  why  you  stay  behind  and 
won't  come  up.  Then  they're  all  surprised  again  at  that, 
and  some  of  them  won't  believe  there  can  be  folk  that  don't 
speak  their  language  at  all;  but  I  tell  them  it's  true  all  the 
same,  and  they  stare  again,  the  stupid  ones  gaping  wider 
than  before. 

"  'She's  put  on  country  clothes  so  as  not  to  be  noticed,' 
I  tell  them;  'and  if  you  saw  her  in  her  fine  dresses,  vrith  a 
real  hat  on  her  head  and  all — why,  your  eyes'd  fall  out  of 


68    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

your  heads,  if  you  stare  like  that  now.'  And  they  laugh  at 
that,  a  roar  of  laugh  that  echoes  all  round. 

"Then  I  come  back  to  you,  and  we  go  on  again. 

"But  now  you  begin  scolding  me  for  playing  silly  tricks 
and  telling  them  all  those  wild  tales — there's  neither  sense 
nor  meaning  in  it,  you  say.  But  then  I  simply  ask  you  if 
didn't  see  yourself  what  a  treat  it  was  for  the  men.  Simple 
woodcutter  folk — it'll  be  something  to  remember  all  their 
lives,  how  one  day  a  beautiful  foreign  lady  came  out  to 
visit  them  in  the  forest.  And  then  you  must  remember  to 
be  a  foreigner  all  day.  If  I  have  to  speak  to  you  when 
there's  anyone  else  about,  I  say  it  in  Swedish;  you  can't 
speak  Swedish,  of  course,  but  all  you  have  to  do  is  just 
nod  and  smile  and  speak  with  your  eyes — that's  all  that's 
needed. 

"  'But  I  won't,'  you  say.  'I'm  not  going  to  pretend  like 
that.'  " 

Here  the  girl  herself  broke  in:  "No,  that  I  certainly 
wouldn't  either,  so  that's  true  enough." 

"Oh,  but  you'd  have  to,  you  know,  once  we've  started. 
And  so  we  go  on.  There's  nobody  from  our  parts  among 
the  gangs  at  work  there,  so  there's  no  risk  of  anyone  know- 
ing you  really. 

"And  so  we  go  on,  from  one  gang  to  another.  And  it  all 
goes  off  splendidly.  But  then  we  come  to  a  clearing,  where 
the  men  are  just  lighting  a  fire  of  pine  knots.  It's  their 
dinner-time,  and  we're  going  to  sit  down  and  have  dinner 
with  them,  say  I. 

"But  of  course  }ou  make  a  fuss,  and  say  you  won't,  but 
you  give  in  after  a  bit — it's  easy  enough.     You've  only  to 


DAISY  69 

sit  down,  and  say  'Tak,  Tak'  in  Swedish  whenever  I  pass 
you  anything. 

"The  men  are  at  work  about  the  fire  as  we  come  up. 
And  you're  all  excitement,  and  red  and  white  by  turns,  just 
like  any  grand  lady  from  foreign  parts.  And  I  tell  them 
the  same  thing  again,  about  you  putting  on  country  clothes 
and  all  that,  and  ask  if  we  may  sit  down — and  perhaps  the 
foreign  young  lady  might  like  to  eat  a  morsel  too. 

"  'We've  naught  that's  fit  to  offer  the  likes  of  her,'  say 
the  men. 

"  'She  can  eat  what  other  folks  can,  I  suppose,'  say  I. 

"Then  they  all  tumble  over  one  another  to  make  a  nice 
seat  for  you  with  twigs  of  pine.  Then  we  sit  down,  and 
I'm  on  the  outside,  in  case  you  want  anything. 

"Oh,  it's  grand.  The  fire  flames  up,  and  the  snow  melting 
like  butter  all  round  and  under,  and  the  men's  faces  all 
aglow.  One  of  them's  roasting  a  piece  of  meat,  another  fish, 
on  a  skewer,  and  the  others  bring  out  their  frozen  bread  and 
thaw  it  soft  and  fresh  as  if  it  had  just  come  out  of  the  oven. 
And  I  do  the  same,  toasting  a  piece  of  meat  and  thawing 
some  bread,  and  put  one  on  the  other  and  cut  up  your  part 
with  my  knife,  to  neat  little  bits  all  ready. 

"And  the  men  are  all  so  interested  they  forget  to  eat. 

"  'I  hope  it's  to  your  taste,  my  lady?'  That's  me  talking 
in  Swedish  as  I  pass  it.  And  you  nod  and  smile,  and  eat 
just  a  little  to  try,  and  the  moment  you've  tasted  it  you  open 
your  mouth  and  I  know  as  sure  as  anything  you're  just  on 
the  point  of  saying  right  out  in  Finnish  that  it's  first-rate, 
and  you've  never  tasted  anything  so  good.  ...  So  I  have  to 
put  in  a  word  myself  or  you'll  spoil  it  all.  *A  little  more, 
if  you  please,  my  lady?'    Like  that." 


70    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

But  here  the  girl  could  contain  herself  no  longer,  and 
laughed  outright. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?  That's  not  right  a  bit.  No, 
you  just  blush,  and  go  on  nibbling  at  a  crust  of  bread,  just 
like  a  tiny  mouse.  .  .  . 

"And  the  men  nudge  each  other  to  look.  Here's  a  fine 
lady  sitting  down  to  eat  as  natural  as  can  be,  for  all  there's 
neither  plate  nor  fork.  And  it's  all  I  can  do  to  keep  from 
laughing  myself,  and  you  have  to  bite  your  lips  and  bend 
dovm  behind  me. 

"Then  I  take  out  our  milk  bottle,  that's  been  warming  by 
the  fire. 

"  'How'U  they  manage  now?'  says  one,  and  all  the  rest 
look  on  to  see. 

"  'Why,  we'll  just  have  to  share  and  share  about,  unless 
the  lady's  to  go  without,'  say  I.  And  then  I  make  believe 
to  whisper  something  in  your  ear. 

"And  you  nod,  and  take  the  bottle  and  drink,  and  hand 
it  to  me  after. 

"  '  'Tis  as  good  as  newly  milked,'  say  I.  And  you  laugh, 
and  the  men  laugh  too. 

"Then  I  take  a  drink,  and  you  again.  I  wipe  the  mouth 
of  the  bottle  on  my  sleeve  each  time  before  giving  it  you. 
And  the  men,  of  course,  they  think  that's  a  mighty  fine  way 
of  doing  things. 

"  'Never  would  have  thought  it,'  says  one  of  them.  And 
they  go  on  with  their  meal. 

"  'Do  as  the  folks  you  fall  in  with,  it  seems,'  says  one 
bolder  than  the  rest. 

"  'Just  so,'  say  I,  'and  that's  as  it  should  be';  and  there's 
no  saying  anything  against  that,  and  so  we  get  on  finely. 


DAISY  71 

"Then  when  the  meal's  over,  we  lie  down  by  the  fire  a  bit. 
One  man  takes  out  some  leaf  tobacco  from  his  pack,  and  cuts 
it  up  on  a  tree  stump — hadn't  had  time  before.  Then  he 
passes  it  round,  and  I  fill  my  pipe  too,  for  all  that  I'm  in 
company  with  a  fine  lady. 

"And  then  we  go  on  our  way.  But  when  we've  got  a  few 
paces  off,  I  turn  round  suddenly  and  say,  'Here,  you,  Heikki, 
give  us  a  bit  of  a  sermon  for  the  young  lady.  'Tis  just  the 
place  for  church.' 

"  'H'm,'  says  Heikki.     'I  don't  think  it  would  do.' 

"  *  'Twill  please  her,  for  sure — I'll  answer  for  that,'  say 
I.  'And  you  do  it  better  than  anything  else.  Antti  can 
help  with  the  service.' 

"  'Yes,  yes!'  cry  the  others.  'If  she's  wanting  to  see  things 
out  here.    Sermon,  Heikki!' 

"Heikki  climbs  up  on  a  big  rock,  and  Antti  on  a  tree 
stump,  and  Heikki  starts  off,  grumbling  out  just  like  the 
pastor  at  Kakela. 

"  'Is — any  soul — from  Keituri — here  in — church  to-day?' 

"  'Ay,  lord  and  noble  master,  here  be  I,'  says  Antti  in  a 
deep  base  that  goes  rumbling  through  the  woods. 

"And  so  they  go  through  the  service,  and  after,  Heikki 
begins  to  preach.  It's  the  wildest  nonsense,  Swedish  and 
Finnish  and  gipsy-talk  and  all  sorts  of  odd  lingo  muddled  up 
together,  and  he  pours  out  the  words  like  a  river  in  flood. 
The  men  are  in  fits  of  laughter  all  the  time,  and  you — 
you're  near  to  bursting. 

"  'The  young  lady  bids  me  thank  you  very  much,'  say  I, 
when  it's  over.  'Both  of  you.  Says  she's  never  heard  so 
fine  a  sermon  all  her  life.' 


72    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

'*  *  'Tis  well  said,'  say  the  men.  'Heikki,  he's  a  wonder 
to  preach,  that  he  is.' 

"And  so  they  wave  their  caps  to  us  as  we  go  off." 

"Oh!"  said  the  girl  delightedly.  "And  is  it  really  like 
that,  I  wonder?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  Only  you  mustn't  say  anything.  We 
must  go  home  now — then  we  can  talk  all  about  it  after. 

"And  we  go  up  the  hill  and  start  off  down  the  other  side. 

"When  we  get  down  on  the  flat,  you  begin  putting  on  the 
pace,  to  see  if  you  can  go  as  fast  as  I  can — and  it's  all  I  can 
do  to  keep  up  v/ith  you.  And  your  cheeks  are  red  as  roses, 
and  you're  so  hot  you  take  off  your  kerchief  and  fasten  it 
round  your  waist  like  a  sash.  And  there  you  are  running 
beside  me,  bareheaded,  and  your  bright  hair  lifting  as  you 
go.  I've  never  seen  you  look  so  beautiful  before,  and  I  tell 
you  so.     You  ought  to  be  like  that  always. 

"And  so  we  come  home,  as  happy  as  can  be.  .  .  .  And 
here  we  are!" 

"You  can  make  stories!"  cried  the  girl.  "It  was  wonder- 
ful!    Just  as  if  we'd  really  been  there  and  seen  it  all." 

"Ah,  we'll  do  it  really  one  day,  we  must.  And  it'll  be  ever 
so  much  easier  then,  after  you've  seen  it  once  to-day." 

"No,  no!    I  never  can,  I  know." 

"Wait  and  see,"  said  he.  "Now,  you  know  what  a  grand 
life  it  is  in  the  forest  in  winter.  A  glorious  life — though 
there's  trouble,  too,  at  times — danger  and  hurt ;  but  who  cares 
for  that?  Do  you  wonder  that  I'm  always  in  high  spirits 
when  I  come  home?  And  when  I  am  here,  why,  'tis  just 
like  another  little  world,  as  clean  and  fresh  as  there.  .  .  . 
Daisy — sit  here,  and  let  me  look  at  you." 


DAISY  78 

The  girl  sat  down  on  his  knee  and  rested  one  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"Don't  laugh  at  me,"  she  said  softly.  "I'm  not  a  bit 
clever,  I  know.    Just  nothing — to  you." 

"You  don't  know  a  bit  what  you  are — but  I  do.  And 
shall  I  tell  you,  just  for  once,  what  you  are  to  me?" 

The  girl  laughed  happily.  "Jf  you'll  be  sure  and  only 
tell  the  truth  I" 

"The  truth — of  course!  How  could  I  help  it?  Now, 
listen.  Once  I  was  in  a  big  town,  where  there  was  a  picture 
gallery,  and  lots  of  marble  statues — like  the  old  Greeks  used 
to  make.    You've  read  about  them,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so.    But  I've  never  seen  them." 

"Well,  there  were  lots  of  these  statues,  white  as  sno\^,  and 
looking  just  like  life.  And  they  were  all  naked,  with  never 
a  rag  to  cover  them,  but  for  all  that  one  could  look  at  them, 
as  calm  and  pure  as  on  the  face  of  God.  For  they  were  so 
beautiful  that  one  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  sacred 
beauty  God  has  given  to  the  human  form.  And — can  you 
guess  what  I'm  going  to  say  now?" 

"How  should  I  guess?"  said  the  girl,  looking  down  shyly, 
as  if  with  some  inkling  she  would  not  confess  of  what  was 
in  his  mind. 

"Just  this — you  are  like  that  to  me:  a  marble  statue,  white 
and  cool,  with  a  beauty  that  is  holy  in  itself.  And  I  thank 
God  that  made  you  so  beautiful  and  pure." 

"Now  you're  laughing  at  me  again,"  said  the  girl  sadly. 

"  'Tis  solemn  earnest.  Listen.  Ask  yourself,  in  the  time 
we've  been  together  here,  have  we  ever  exchanged  a  single 
kiss,  a  single  touch,  with  any  thought  of  passion?" 

"Passion?"     The  girl's  eyes  looked  frankly  into  his. 


74    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"Yes.  ...  It  might  Lave  been,  you  know.  I  am  pas- 
sionate by  nature,  but  \vhen  I  look  at  you,  it  cools  and  dies. 
I  am  telling  you  the  truth  when  I  say  you  have  been  like 
a  healing,  cooling  draught  to  one  in  a  fever.  And  I  believe 
you  have  changed  me  altogether,  now  and  for  ever  after." 

"I  don't  think  1  understand — not  all  of  it.  But  have  you 
really  been  so  happy?" 

"So  unspeakably  happy.  Yes.  And  glad  to  feel  myself 
strong  and  self-restrained.  I  have  often  thought  that  no 
one  could  ever  dream  what  happiness  and  beauty  can  live 
in  one  little  grey  village.  Do  you  know  what  I  think?  I 
believe  that  in  every  little  grey  village  there  is  a  quiet,  secret 
happiness,  that  no  one  knows." 

"Not  everj'where,  Olof.  It  is  not  everywhere  there  is 
anyone  like  you." 

"But  you!  I  don't  mean  to  say,  of  course,  it  should  be 
just  like  ours.     But  a  happiness  .  .  ." 

He  drew  the  girl  to  him,  and  their  lips  met  in  a  long, 
gentle  kiss. 

"Can  everyone  kiss  like  you?"  she  whispered  shyly,  with 
a  tender  gleam  in  her  eyes. 

"Maybe.    I  don't  know." 

"No,  no — there's  no  one  in  the  world  like  you.  None  that 
can  talk  like  you,  or  kiss  like  you.  Do  you  know  what  I 
always  think — always  look  at,  when  you  kiss  me?" 

"No — tell  me,  tell  me!"  he  cried  eagerly. 

"No— I  don't  think  I  can." 

"Something  you  can't  tell  me,  Daisy-flower?  Come,  don't 
you  think  it's  your  turn  to  tell  me  something  now?" 

"Well,  then — only,  you  mustn't  laugh.  I  know  it's  silly. 
I  always — I  always  look  at  your  neck.     There's  a  big  vein 


DAISY  75 

just  there,  and  it  beats  so  prettily  all  the  time.  And  then 
I  feel  as  if  your  soul  were  flowing  through  it — right  into  me. 
And  it  does,  for  I  can  feel  it!" 

"That's  the  loveliest  thing  you've  ever  said  in  all  your 
life,"  said  he  solemnly.  "We  won't  talk  any  more  now, 
only  be  together.  ..." 

Spring  was  near ;  it  was  open  war  between  the  sun  and  the 
cold.    The  snowdrifts  had  begun  to  disappear. 

Strange  dreams  were  at  work  in  Olof's  mind. 

"She  loves  me — warmly  and  truly,"  he  told  himself.  "But 
is  her  love  deep  and  strong  enough  for  her  to  forget  all  else, 
and  give  herself  up  fully  and  freely  to  her  lover?" 

"And  could  you  let  her?  Could  you  accept  that  sacrifice 
— from  one  like  her  ?" 

"No,  no.  I  didn't  mean  that,  of  course.  But  if  only  I 
could  be  sure — could  feel  beyond  all  doubt  that  she  would; 
that  she  was  ready  to  give  up  everything  for  my  sake.  .  .  ." 

"And  you  count  that  the  final  test  of  love?  Shame  on 
you!" 

The  colour  faded  from  the  evening  sky;  the  stars  were 
lit  .  .  .  the  errant  fancies  died  away. 

In  the  brilliant  sunlight  they  returned — the  same  strange 
dreams  welling  up  on  every  side,  like  the  waters  of  spring. 
Behind  and  before  him,  everywhere,  insistently,  an  irre- 
sistible song. 

"I  must  know — I  must  sound  the  uttermost  depths  of  her 
love!" 

"Can  you  not  see  how  cruel  it  would  be — cruel  to  her  be- 
yond all  others?" 


76     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"But  only  to  know !    To  ask  as  if  only  in  jest.  .  .  ." 
"In  jest?    And  you  would  jest  with  such  a  thing  as  thisl" 
And  the  dreams  sank  down  into  the  hurrying  waters;  yet 
still  the  warm  clouds  sailed  across  the  sky. 

Like  a  rushing  flood — the  old  desire  again. 

"Can  anything  be  cruel  that  is  meant  in  love?  A  question 
only — showing  in  itself  how  deeply  I  love  her?  It  is  tor- 
ture not  to  know;  I  must  break  through  it — I  must  learn  the 
truth  I" 

".  .  ."  But  the  other  voice  was  lost  in  a  rush  of  foaming 
waters. 

•  ••••** 

He  took  the  girl's  hand  in  his,  and  spoke  warmly,  with 
beautiful  words. 

Her  fair  brow  darkened  under  a  cloud — so  dark  seemed 
any  cloud  there  that  for  a  moment  he  wished  he  had  not 
spoken. 

"I  never  thought  you  could  doubt  me,"  she  murmured, 
almost  in  tears.    "Or  ask — or  ask  for  that!" 

"Oh,  my  love,"  he  thought.  "If  you  only  knew!  Just 
one  word,  and  then  I  can  tell  you  all — and  we  shall  be 
doubly  happy  after." 

So  he  thought,  but  he  did  not  speak.  And  now  he  could 
think  of  nothing  but  the  moment  when  he  could  tell  her  that 
it  was  but  a  question  in  all  innocence — a  trial  of  her  love. 

"It  is  because  I  love  you  as  I  do,"  she  said,  "that  I  could 
not  do  it  We  have  been  so  happy — but  that  would  be 
something  strange  between  us.  And  now  that  you  are  going 
away  ..."  She  stopped,  and  the  two  looked  at  each  other 
sorrowfully.     It  was  as  if  already  something  strange  had 


DAISY  77 

crept  between  them,  as  if  they  had  hurt  each  other  unwit- 
tingly, and  suffered  at  the  thought. 

Day  by  day  their  parting  drew  nearer,  the  sun  was  veiled 
in  a  dreary  mist. 

Then  one  day  she  came  to  him,  strangely  moved,  and  clung 
to  him,  slight  and  yielding  as  the  drooping  curtains  of  the 
birch,  swayed  by  the  wind.  Clung  to  him,  threw  her  arms 
warmly  round  his  neck,  and  looked  into  his  eyes  with  a  new 
light  in  her  own. 

"What — what  is  it?"  he  asked,  with  emotion,  hovering 
between  fear  and  a  strange  delight. 

"Olof — I  am  ...  I  can  say  it  now.  .  .  ." 

A  tumult  of  joy  rose  up  in  him  at  her  words.  He  clasped 
her  to  him  in  a  fervent  embrace,  and  opened  his  lips  to  tell 
her  the  secret  at  last.  But  his  heart  beat  all  too  violently, 
a  hand  seemed  clutching  his  throat,  and  he  could  not  utter 
a  word,  but  crushed  her  closer  to  him,  and  pressed  his  lips 
to  hers. 

Drawn  two  ways,  he  seemed,  and  now  but  one ;  all  thought 
of  the  other  vanished  utterly.  His  breast  was  almost  burst- 
ing with  a  desperate  regret;  he  could  not  speak,  and  would 
not  even  if  he  could. 

And  then,  as  he  felt  the  pressure  of  her  embrace  return 
his  own,  regret  was  drowned  in  an  ecstasy  of  surrender. 

**I  love  you,"  she  whispered,  "as  only  your  mother  ever 
could  I" 

Olof  turned  cold.  It  was  as  if  a  stranger  had  surprised 
them  in  an  intimate  caress. 

"Olof,"  she  murmured,  with  an  unspeakable  tenderness 
in  her  eyes.     And  as  if  some  great  thing  had  suddenly  come 


78     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

into  her  mind  she  \vf;nt  on:  "You  have  never  told  me  about 
your  mother.  .  .  .  No,  don't  tell  me  now;  I  know  it  all  my- 
self. She  is  tall  like  you,  and  stately,  and  upright  still  as 
ever.  And  she  has  just  the  same  bright  eyes,  and  little  hol- 
lows at  the  temples,  like  you  have.  And  she  wears  a  dark 
striped  apron,  with  a  little  pocket  at  the  side,  where  she 
keeps  her  knitting,  and  takes  it  out  now  and  then  to  work 
at  as  she  goes." 

"How  could  you  know!"  he  cried,  in  pleased  surprise. 
His  fear  was  gone  now,  and  he  felt  only  a  wonderful  depth 
of  happiness  at  hearing  the  girl  speak  so  tenderly  of  his 
mother. 

"  'Tis  only  guessing.  But  do  you  know — I  should  so  like 
to  see  her,  your  mother,  that.   .  .  ." 

"That  .  .  .?" 

"Only  ,  .  .  only,  I  should  hke  to  see  her  so.  Then  I'd 
put  my  arms  round  her  neck  and  .  .  .  Olof,  did  your 
mother  often  kiss  you?" 

"No.     Not  often." 

"But  she  stroked  your  hair,  and  often  talked  with  you 
all  alone,  I  know." 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes." 

His  arms  loosed  their  hold  of  the  girl,  and  almost  un- 
consciously he  thrust  her  a  little  away,  staring  out  into  the 
distance  with  a  faint  smile  on  his  lips  and  deepest  earnest 
in  his  eyes. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  anxiously,  as  if  fearing  to  have 
hurt  hira.  But  he  did  not  seem  to  hear,  only  stood  looking 
out  at  nothing  as  before. 

»'01of — what  is  it?"  she  asked  again,  in  evident  distress. 


DAISY  79 

"Only^it  was  only  my  mother  speaking  to  me  all  alone," 
he  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"Oh!"  The  girl  sighed  deeply.  "Now — was  it  just  now 
she  spoke?" 

He  nodded. 

The  girl  glanced  at  him  and  hesitated.  "Won't  you — 
won't  you  tell  me  what  she  said?"  she  asked  timidly. 

"She  told  me  it  was  wrong — a  sinful  \vrong  even  to  ask 
you.  .  .  ." 

The  girl  gazed  at  him  for  a  long  time  without  speaking; 
the  tenderness  in  her  eyes  grew  to  unutterable  depths. 

"Oh,"  she  whispered  at  last,  very  softly,  "if  she  only  knew 
how  I  love  her  now — your  mother!  I  never  loved  her  so 
before."     And  she  clasped  her  arms  round  his  neck. 


THE  RAPIDS 

THE  rapids  at  Kohiseva  are  well  known;  none  so 
well  known,  nor  so  ill  famed,  in  all  the  length  of 
Nuoli  River. 
And  the  homestead  at  Moisio  is  a  well-known  place,  for 
they  are  a  stubborn  race  that  hold  it;  for  generations  past 
the  masters  of  Moisio  have  been  known  among  their  neigh- 
bours as  men  of  substance,  and  hard  in  their  dealings  to  boot 
— unswerving  and  pitiless  as  the  waters  of  Kohiseva. 

The  daughter  of  Moisio  is  well  known  too;  none  carries 

her  head  so  high,  and  a  tender  glance  from  her  eyes  is  more 

than  any  of  the  young  men  round  can  boast  of  having  won. 

KyUikki  is  her  name — and  no  one  ever  had  such  a  name — 

at  least,  folk  say  there's  no  such  name  in  the  calendar. 

The  lumbermen's  rearguard  had  come  to  Kohiseva.  They 
came  by  night,  and  here  they  were  at  their  j&rst  day's  work 
there  now.  Some  were  still  busy  floating  the  last  of  the 
timber  down;  others  were  clearing  the  banks  of  lumber  that 
had  driven  ashore. 

It  was  evening,  and  the  men  were  on  their  way  to  their 
quarters  in  the  village. 

In  the  garden  at  Moisio  a  young  girl  was  watering  some 
plants  newly  set. 

A  youth  came  walking  down  the  road  beyond  the  fence. 

Some  distance  off,  he  caught  sight  of  the  girl,  and  watched 

her  critically  as  he  came  up. 

80 


THE  RAPIDS  81 

"This  must  be  the  one  they  spoke  of,"  he  said  to  himself. 
'The  girl  that's  proud  beyond  winning!" 

The  girl's  slender  figure  straightened  as  she  rose  from  her 
stooping  position,  and  threw  back  the  plaited  hair  that  had 
fallen  forward  over  one  shoulder;  she  bowed  her  head  in  de- 
mure self-consciousness. 

"She's  all  they  say,  by  her  looks,"  thought  the  youth,  and 
slackened  his  steps  involuntarily  as  he  passed. 

The  girl  watched  him  covertly.  "So  that's  the  one  they've 
all  been  talking  about,"  she  said  to  herself.  "The  one  that's 
not  like  any  of  the  rest." 

She  bent  down  to  fill  her  can. 

"Shall  I  speak  to  her?"  the  young  man  asked  himself. 

"But  suppose  she'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  you?" 

"H'm.  'Twould  be  the  first  that  ever  took  it  so!"  And  he 
smiled. 

The  girl  bent  over  her  work  again;  the  young  man  came 
nearer. 

"I  wonder  if  he'll  have  the  impudence  to  speak  to  me," 
she  thought.  "  'Twould  be  like  him,  from  what  they  say. 
But  let  him  try  it  with  me  .  .  . !" 

"Like  to  like's  the  best  way,  I  doubt,"  said  the  youth  to 
himself.  "If  she's  so  proud,  I'd  better  be  the  same."  And 
he  walked  by  resolutely,  without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  her, 
after  all. 

"Ho!"  The  girl  spilled  some  of  the  water  with  a  splash 
to  one  side.    "So  that's  his  way,  is  it?" 

She  cast  a  look  of  displeasure  at  him  as  he  passed  down 
the  road — to  go  by  like  that  without  a  word  was  almost  a 
greater  offence  than  if  he  had  spoken. 


82     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

Next  evening  she  was  there  again. 

And  this  time  he  stopped. 

"Good  evening,"  he  said,  raising  his  hat  with  rather  more 
of  pride  than  courtesy. 

"Good  evening."  She  flung  the  words  at  him  over  her 
shoulder,  turning  her  head  but  just  so  much  as  to  show  the 
corner  of  an  eye. 

Silence. 

"What  lovely  roses!" 

The  speech  was  pleasant  enough  in  itself,  almost  a  com- 
pliment. But  there  was  a  challenge  in  the  words — as  the 
speaker  himself  was  aware. 

"They're  well  enough,"  she  answered  carelessly,  as  if  to 
imply  that  she  had  no  more  to  say — he  could  go  on  if  he 
cared  to. 

"I  wonder,  now,  if  you'd  give  me  one — one  of  the  red 
ones  yonder — if  it's  not  too  much  to  ask?" 

The  girl  drew  herself  up.  "  'Tis  not  our  way  at  Moisio 
to  give  roses  over  the  fence  to  strangers — though  there  may 
be  those  elsewhere  that  are  willing  enough." 

"Though  there  may  be  those  elsewhere  .  .  ."  The  young 
man  flushed.  He  understood  what  was  in  her  mind — the 
tone  of  her  voice  was  enough.  He  had  expected  something 
of  this  at  their  first  encounter,  but  for  all  that  he  was  startled 
at  the  fierce  resolution  in  her  opening  thrust. 

"  'Tis  not  my  way  to  beg  for  roses  over  every  fence,"  he 
answered  proudly.  "Nor  to  ask  a  thing  twice  of  anyone. 
Good-night!" 

The  girl  looked  at  him,  astonished.  She  had  not  expected 
anything  like  this. 

He  walked  on  a  few  paces,  then  stopped  suddenly,  and 


THE  RAPIDS  83 

clearing  the  ditch  with  a  leap,  stood  leaning  against  the 
fence. 

"There's  just  one  thing  I'd  like  to  say — if  I  may,"  he  said, 
glancing  sharply  at  her. 

"You  can  say  what  you  please,  I  suppose,"  she  answered. 

"Just  this,  then,"  he  went  on.  "If  any  day  you  should 
find  you  have  set  too  high  a  price  upon  your  roses,  then  take 
the  one  I  asked  for,  and  wear  it  yourself.  It  could  not  hurt 
your  pride,  I  think.  It  would  only  show  that  you  counted 
me  a  fellow-creature  at  least." 

"Too  high  at  least  to  be  given  to  any  tramp  that  is  bold 
enough  to  ask,"  said  the  girl,  facing  him  squarely.  "If  any- 
one cares  for  them,  he  must  venture  more  than  that." 

They  looked  each  other  straight  in  the  eyes  for  a  moment. 

"I'll  bear  that  in  mind,"  said  the  youth,  with  emphasis. 
"Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  said  the  girl. 

He  walked  on,  and  she  stood  watching  him. 

"Not  like  the  others — they  were  right  in  that,"  said  she, 
and  went  on  with  her  work. 

That  Sunday  afternoon  a  crowd  of  people  gathered  on 
Kohiseva  bridge.  There  was  not  room  for  all,  and  the 
banks  were  thickly  lined  on  either  side. 

There  were  rumours  of  unusual  doings  abroad — and  folk 
had  come  out  to  see. 

"Next  Sunday  afternoon  at  four,"  the  news  had  run,  "a 
match  at  Kohiseva — shooting  the  rapids." 

And  folk  pricked  up  their  ears  aghast — down  the  rapids 
at  Kohiseva  on  a  stick  of  timber;  it  was  more  than  any  had 
ever   ventured   yet.      True,   there    was    the   man   some   ten 


84     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

years  back — a  foolhardy  fellow  from  a  neighbouring  district 
— who  had  tried  the  lower  reach,  which  was  less  dangerous 
by  far,  but  he  was  dead  when  he  came  ashore. 

Anyhow,  it  was  to  be  done  now.  There  were  two  gangs 
of  lumbermen  in  the  place,  and,  as  it  chanced,  men  of  un- 
usual daring  and  skill  in  each.  A  dispute  had  arisen  between 
the  headmen  as  to  the  merits  of  their  respective  parties,  and 
the  only  way  to  settle  it  was  by  a  match,  the  headman  of 
the  losing  gang  to  stand  treat  all  round. 

All  Kohiseva  was  afoot,  and  many  had  come  in  from  the 
village  round.    It  was  no  light  thing  to  try  the  rapids  there. 

The  sight-seers  on  the  bridge  moved  this  way  and  that, 
eagerly  discussing  the  event. 

"  Tis  a  mad  idea,  for  sure." 

"Ay,  they'll  have  been  drunk  the  time,  no  doubt." 

"There's  no  man  in  his  sober  senses  would  ever  try  it." 

"But  which  of  them  is  it?"  asked  one.  "Who's  going 
down?"  ■ 

"One  of  them's  just  a  mad  young  fool  that'll  do  any- 
thing if  you  dare  him." 

"Ay,  there's  some  of  that  sort  most  ways  to  be  found.  But 
'tis  a  mad  thing  to  do." 

"None  so  mad,  perhaps,"  put  in  another.  "They  say  he's 
the  cleverest  of  them  all." 

"I  doubt  but  Kohiseva'll  be  one  too  clever  for  him.  And 
the  other — who's  he?" 

"Why,  didn't  you  know?  There  he  is  standing  over 
there;  Olof,  they  say's  his  name." 

"That  one?  He  looks  a  sight  too  fine  for  a  lumberman 
at  all." 

"  'Tis  him  none  the  less  for  that." 


THE  RAPIDS  85 

"What's  he  doing  in  the  gang,  anyway?  'Tis  not  his 
business,  by  the  look  of  him." 

"Ay,  you  may  say  so,  but  there's  none  knows  more  about 
him  than  all  can  see.  Book-learned,  they  say  he  is,  and 
speaks  foreign  lingos,  but  Olof's  all  the  name  he  goes  by." 

"H'm.    Must  be  a  queer  sort." 

"Ay,  there's  more  than  one  queer  sort  among  these  gangs. 
But  if  any  ever  gets  through  the  rapids,  I  say  'twill  be  him 
and  no  other." 

"Wait  and  see,"  grumbled  an  adherent  of  the  opposite 
party. 

"Hey — look!  there's  old  man  Moisio  pushing  through  to 
the  foremen.     Now,  what's  he  want  with  them,  I  wonder?" 

The  foremen  stood  midway  across  the  bridge.  One  of 
them,  Falk,  was  leaning  against  the  parapet,  puffing  at  his 
tasselled  pipe,  and  smiling.  The  other,  Vantti  he  was  called, 
a  sturdy,  thick-set  fellow,  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  a  cigar  between  his  teeth.  Vantti  came  from  the  north- 
east, from  Karelen,  and  was  proud  of  it,  as  he  was  proud 
of  his  Karelen  dialect  and  his  enormous  Karelen  boots — 
huge,  crook-toed  thigh-boots  that  seemed  to  swallow  him  up 
to  the  waist. 

Moisio  came  up  to  the  two.  "What's  this  about  the 
rapids?"  he  said  sternly,  "If  you've  put  up  a  match,  as 
they're  saying  here,  then  I've  come  to  say  you'd  better  put 
it  off  before  harm  comes  of  it.  Five  men's  lives  the  river's 
taken  here  in  my  time.    And  we've  no  wish  for  more." 

"Easy,  Moisio,"  says  Vantti,  taking  the  cigar  from  his 
mouth,  and  spitting  a  thin  jet  sideways.  "No  call  to  take 
it  that  way.  'Tis  but  a  bit  of  a  show  we've  got  up  to  amuse 
the  village  folk." 


86     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"Call  it  what  you  please,"  answered  Moisio.  "You'll 
mark  what  I  say.  I'm  answerable  for  order  in  this  place,  and 
if  any  harm  comes  afterwards,  I'll  call  you  to  account  for  it. 
'Tis  no  lawful  way,  to  risk  men's  lives  for  a  bet." 

"Moisio's  right,"  cried  several  among  the  crowd. 

The  two  headmen  consulted  in  a  whisper. 

"Ay,  if  that's  the  way  of  it,"  says  Vantti  at  last,  and  offers 
his  hand.    Falk  takes  it,  and  turns  to  face  the  crowd. 

"Listen,"  he  says  aloud.  "Vantti,  here,  and  I,  we  take 
you  to  witness  that  we've  called  off  our  bet  here  and  now. 
So  there's  none  can  blame  us  afterwards.  If  the  two  men 
who've  entered  for  the  match  will  cry  off  too,  there's  an  end 
of  it.     If  not,  'tis  their  own  affair." 

All  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  two  competitors,  who 
stood  facing  each  other,  with  their  friends  around. 

One  of  them,  a  young  man  in  a  bright  red  coat,  lifts  his 
head  boldly.  "I'm  not  afraid  of  drowning,  and  not  going 
to  drown,"  he  cries. 

"You  draw  back,  then,"  says  Moisio  to  Olof.  "He'll  not 
care  to  make  the  trip  alone.  No  man's  gone  down  the  rapids 
here  and  lived — 'tis  madness  to  try." 

Olof  scans  the  water  with  a  critical  eye,  the  crowd  wait- 
ing expectantly  the  while. 

"I'll  not  deny  it,"  says  he  at  last.  "Don't  think  I'm  paying 
no  heed  to  what  you  say.  But  I've  a  reason  of  my  own  for 
doing  something  more  than  most  would  venture — and  I'll 
not  draw  back."  He  spoke  loudly  and  clearly;  all  on  the 
bridge  could  hear  his  words. 

Moisio  said  no  more,  but  drew  back  a  little. 

"Well,  who's  to  go  first?"  said  Falk. 

"Let  me,"  says  Redjacket. 


THE  RAPIDS  87 

"As  you  please,"  said  Olof. 

Moisio  turned  to  the  headmen  again.  "You'll  have  some 
men  on  the  farther  bank,"  he  said,  "in  case  of  accidents." 

"Not  on  my  account,"  puts  in  Redjacket  scornfully.  "But 
if  the  other  man  here  wants  fishing  up  .  .  ." 

"Have  them  there  if  you  like,"  says  Olof.  "  'Twill  do  no 
harm." 

The  men  take  up  their  poles;  those  on  the  bridge  look 
expectantly  down  the  river. 

Kohiseva  Rapids  are  a  lordly  sight  in  spring,  when  the 
river  is  full.  The  strong  arch  of  the  bridge  spans  its  power- 
ful neck,  and  just  below  the  rapids  begin,  rushing  down  the 
first  straight  reach  with  a  slight  fall  here  and  there.  Then 
curving  to  the  right,  and  breaking  in  foam  against  the  rocky 
wall  of  Akeanlinna — a  mighty  fortress  of  stone  rising  straight 
up  in  midstream,  with  a  clump  of  bushes  like  a  helmet  plume 
on  its  top.  The  river  then  divides,  the  left  arm  racing  in 
spate  down  to  the  mill,  the  right  turning  off  through  a  chan- 
nel blasted  out  of  the  rock  for  the  passage  of  timber  going 
down.  A  wild  piece  of  water  this ;  the  foam  dances  furiously 
in  the  narrow  cut,  but  it  ends  as  swiftly  as  the  joy  of  life; 
over  a  ledge  of  rock  the  waves  are  flung  a  couple  of  fathoms 
do\vn  into  the  whirlpool  called  Eva's  Pool.  Here  they  check 
and  subside,  the  channel  widens  out  below,  and  the  water 
passes  on  at  a  slower  pace  through  the  easier  rapids  below. 

That  is  Kohiseva.  The  rock  of  Akeanlinna  would  be  left 
untroubled  were  it  not  for  the  lumbermen  and  their  work. 
In  the  floating  season  the  channel  between  it  and  the  left 
bank  is  filled  with  timber,  gathering  like  a  great  bridge, 
against  which  new  arrivals  fling  themselves  in  fury,  till  they 
are  drawn  down  through  the  cut. 


88     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

The  task  which  the  rival  champions  have  set  themselves 
to-day  is  to  make  their  way  down  the  upper  rapids  as  far  as 
Akeanlinna,  and  there  spring  off — if  they  can — at  the  block 
— for  there  is  no  getting  down  through  the  cut  on  a  timber 
baulk,  and  none  could  go  over  the  ledge  to  Eva's  Pool  and 
live. 

The  men  have  taken  up  their  places  on  the  bank,  and  the 
two  competitors  are  preparing  to  start. 

''Wouldn't  it  be  as  well  to  send  a  couple  of  baulks  down 
first,  for  whirlpools  and  hidden  rocks?"  suggests  Olof. 

"Ho,  yes!"  cries  his  rival.  "And  get  a  surveyor  to  mark 
it  all  out  neatly  on  a  chart — a  fine  idea!" 

Redjacket's  party  burst  out  laughing  at  this,  and  all  looked 
at  Olof. 

He  flushes  slightly,  but  says  nothing,  only  bites  his  lip 
and  turns  away  to  study  the  river  once  more. 

Redjacket  looks  at  him  sneeringly,  and,  pole  in  hand, 
steps  out  on  to  the  boom,  a  little  way  above  the  bridge.  Then, 
springing  over  to  the  raft,  he  chooses  his  craft  for  the  voyage 
— a  buoyant  pine  stem,  short  and  thick,  and  stripped  of  its 
bark. 

The  young  man  stniles,  with  a  curious  expression,  as  he 
looks  on. 

"Did  you  see?"  whispers  one  on  the  bridge  to  his  neigh- 
bour.   "^Mark  my  words,  he  knows  what  he's  about." 

"Look  out  ahead!"  Redjacket  slips  his  tree  trunk  under 
the  boom,  and  steps  out  on  to  it.  Then  with  a  touch  of  his 
foot  he  sends  it  round  and  round — spinning  it,  and  sending 
up  the  water  on  either  side. 

"Ay,  he's  a  smart  lad,"  say  the  onlookers  on  the  bridge. 

Redjacket  stops  his  manoeu\Tes  now,  gives  a  bold  glance 


THE  RAPIDS  89 

towards  the  bridge,  then,  with  a  shrill  whistle,  fixes  the  point 
of  his  pole  in  the  wpod;  then,  stepping  back  a  little,  with  his 
hands  on  his  hips,  begins,  mockingly,  to  "say  his  prayers." 

"There!  Ever  see  such  a  lad?"  Redjacket's  partisans 
look  round  proudly  at  the  rest. 

"Look  at  him— look!" 

"Have  done  with  that!"  cries  a  stem  voice  from  the  crowd. 
"  'Tis  no  time  for  mockery." 

"What's  it  to  you  whether  I  choose  to  sing  or  pray?"  cries 
Redjacket,  with  an  oath.  But  he  stops  his  show  of  praying, 
all  the  same,  and  picks  up  his  pole  again.  He  is  nearing  the 
bridge  now. 

Already  the  angry  water  swirls  over  the  stem  and  laps  his 
boots,  but  he  stands  fast. 

The  speed  increases,  the  log  itself  disappears  in  a  flurry 
of  foam — those  on  the  bridge  hold  their  breath. 

Then  it  comes  up  again.  The  current  thrusts  against 
its  hinder  end,  and  the  buoyant  wood  answers  to  it  like  the 
tail  of  a  fish,  slipping  sideways  round;  the  steersman  sways, 
but  with  a  swing  of  his  pole  recovers  his  balance,  and  stands 
steady  as  before. 

A  sigh  of  relief  from  the  watchers. 

"Tra  la  la  la!"  sings  Redjacket,  undismayed.  And  he 
takes  a  couple  of  dance-steps  on  his  log. 

"He's  no  greenhorn,  anyhow,"  the  crowd  agree.  And  some 
of  them  glance  at  Olof — to  see  how  he  takes  their  praise 
of  his  rival. 

But  Olof  does  not  seem  to  heed;  he  is  watching  the  water 
with  a  certain  impatience — no  more. 

Just  then  Redjacket's  log  strikes  a  sunken  rock,  and  is 
thrust  backward.     A  swift  movement — the  log  comes  down 


90     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

with  a  splash  into  the  foam;  the  man  bends  over,  straightens 
his  body,  and  stands  upright  as  before,  then  strikes  an  atti- 
tude, and  sails  on  past  the  obstacle, 

"Well  done— well  done!" 

"  'Twas  a  marvel  he  cleared  it." 

The  log  goes  on  its  way,  the  man  standing  easily  as  ever. 

Then  once  more  it  collides.  The  fore  end  lifts — an  oath 
is  heard — next  second  the  red  jacket  shows  in  a  whirl  of 
water.     Then  it  disappears. 

A  movement  of  anxiety  on  the  bridge — the  watchers  on 
the  bank  spring  to  their  feet. 

He  is  up  again,  swimming  athwart  the  stream.  A  few 
powerful  strokes,  and  he  reaches  the  dead  water  close  in- 
shore. 

Cursing  aloud,  he  sits  dowTi  and  pours  the  water  from  his 
boots.  One  of  the  men  posted  at  Akeanlinna  brings  him  his 
pole — but  his  hat  is  gone.     He  hurries  up  along  the  bank. 

"Enough — give  over  now!"  cr}'  those  on  the  bridge. 

"Go  and  tell  your  mother!"  he  answers  furiously. 

"Maybe  he'd  like  to  have  that  chart  now,  after  all,"  says 
one,  with  a  sly  glance. 

He  pulls  off  his  red  coat.  "Seeing  I've  lost  my  hat,  I 
can  do  without  a  jacket."  A  blue  shirt  shows  up  on  the 
raft;  he  picks  out  a  fresh  log,  thrusts  it  angrily  under  the 
boom,  and  comes  floating  down  towards  the  bridge. 

"Now  you  can  stare  till  you  think  you'll  know  me  again." 

Not  a  sound  from  those  on  the  bridge. 

The  log  shoots  down,  the  man  stands  erect,  and  passes 
proudly  under  the  gaze  of  all.  He  plies  his  pole  to  the 
right,  and  the  log  swerves  a  little  to  the  opposite  side — ^the 


THE  RAPIDS  91 

first  obstacle  is  safely  passed,  though  it  almost  cost  him  his 
footing  again. 

"Aha!  He's  on  his  guard  this  time!  Maybe  he'll  do  it, 
after  all!" 

"Well,  he  said  you'd  know  him  again!"  Redjacket's  party 
are  recovering  confidence. 

The  log  hurries  on,  the  man  balancing  carefully  with  his 
pole. 

Nearing  the  second  rock  now — the  figure  crouches  down 
and  steps  a  little  back.  A  sudden  shock,  a  crash — his  pole 
has  broken,  and  the  blue  shirt  disappears  in  the  rapids. 

"Look!  Right  down  there!  He'll  never  get  ashore  this 
time."    The  onlookers  crowd  together,  straining  to  see. 

The  blue  shirt  comes  into  view  for  a  moment. 

"He'll  never  do  it — 'tis  right  out  in  midstream." 

"Hi — look  out  there  on  tlie  bank!" 

"He'll  be  smashed  to  pieces  on  the  Malli  Rock." 

"No,  no!  he's  too  far  out." 

The  blue  shirt  is  carried  past  the  threatening  rock,  but 
making  straight  for  the  big  raft  below.  A  clenched  hand 
is  raised  to  bid  the  men  there  stand  aside — he  will  manage 
alone.  But  they  take  no  heed.  One  thrusts  a  pole  between 
the  swimmer's  legs  as  he  nears  the  raft,  another  grasps  him 
by  the  neck,  and  they  haul  him  up — a  heavy  pull,  vnth  the 
water  striving  all  the  time  to  suck  him  under.  Inch  by  inch 
the  blue  shirt  rises  above  the  edge. 

He  limps  ashore,  supported  by  a  man  on  either  side.  One 
knee  is  bleeding. 

"  'Tis  more  than  man  can  do!"  he  cries  in  a  broken  voice, 
shaking  his  fist  toward  the  bridge. 


92      SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

There  is  a  low  murmur  of  voices  on  the  bridge,  an  anxious 
whispering.  Olof  picks  up  his  pole.  Close  behind  him  a 
young  girl  plucks  at  the  sleeve  of  an  elderly  man,  and  seems 
to  be  urging  him,  entreating.   .  .  . 

Moisio  turns  to  Olof.  "Once  more  I  ask  of  you — ^let  it 
be  enough.  You  have  seen  how  your  companion  fared.  Do 
not  try  it  again." 

"I  must,"  answered  Olof  in  a  voice  cold  and  hard  as  steel, 
with  a  ring  of  confidence  that  impressed  those  who  heard. 

He  goes  off  to  the  raft,  picks  out  a  log  and  tries  its 
buoyancy  with  care.  A  long  pine  stem,  with  the  bark  off,  and 
floating  deep  in  the  water. 

"Ah — he's  choosing  a  horse  of  another  sort!" 

"  Tis  another  sort  of  rider,  too,  by  his  looks." 

Olof  was  nearing  the  bridge  now — calmly,  without  a  word 
watching  the  course  of  the  river  all  the  time.     Reaching  the 
bridge,  he  raised  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  met  the  glance 
of  a  girl  looking  down.     A  faint  smile,  and  the  slightest  in- 
clination of  the  head,  no  more. 

"Good  luck  to  you!"  cried  several  of  the  onlookers;  a  cer- 
tain sjTnpathy  was  evident  among  the  crowd. 

Now  he  glides  under  the  bridge,  on  towards  the  perilous 
stage  of  the  journey — all  watch  with  eager  eyes. 

The  strange  craft  cleaves  the  waves,  sending  up  spray  on 
either  hand — but  the  heavy  log,  floating  deep,  hardly  moves; 
the  steersman  keeps  his  footing  steadily  as  on  firm  ground. 

"That's  the  way!  Ah,  he  knows  tjie  sort  of  craft  to 
choose  for  the  work!" 

The  log  hurries  on,  the  lithe  figure  bends  a  little,  balanc- 
ing with  the  pole. 

"Turn  off — turn  off!    He's  making  straight  for  the  rockT 


THE  RAPIDS  93 

He  stands  poised,  with  muscles  tense,  his  pole  in  readi- 
ness, his  eyes  fixed  on  the  whirl  about  the  sunken  rock,  his 
knees  slightly  bent. 

A  shock — and  he  springs  deftly  in  air  as  the  heavy  log 
is  thrust  backward  under  him — ^taking  his  footing  again  as 
firmly  as  before. 

"Bravo,  bravo!     Finely  done!" 

On  again.  A  few  quick,  powerful  strokes  with  the  pole — 
and  the  rock  that  had  been  his  rival's  undoing  is  safely 
passed. 

"He'll  do  it!  He's  the  man!"  The  onlookers  were  all 
excitement  now. 

The  speed  increases,  the  lithe  figure  swaying  to  either  side. 
A  thrust  from  the  left — he  springs  light-footed  to  meet  it. 

Once  more  his  body  is  bent,  his  pole  held  firmly,  knees 
crouching  deep — those  on  the  bridge  crane  their  necks  to 
watch. 

The  next  shock  comes  with  a  crash  that  is  plainly  heard 
by  those  upstream;  again  he  springs  as  the  log  thrusts  back, 
and  comes  down  neatly  as  before.  A  few  paces  forward  to 
get  his  balance,  then  back  a  step  or  two  like  a  tight-rope 
walker. 

"That's  the  way,  lad!" 

"He  knows  how  to  dance!" 

"Look  out  for  Malli  Rock!" 

"Ay,  if  he  can  dear  that!" 

Malli  Rock  stands  ready  to  meet  the  attack;  the  rapids 
are  tearing  past  on  either  side. 

The  log  comes  down,  making  full  towards  the  smooth, 
sloping  face  of  the  rock. 

Olof  swerves  a  little  to  the  right,  and  leaps  off,  coming 


94    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RP^D  FLOWER 

down  in  a  whirl  of  spray:  The  rock  has  done  its  part,  and 
sent  the  end  of  the  log  high  out  of  the  water;  Olof  lands 
on  it  and  goes  on  again,  the  log  scraping  the  face  of  the 
rock  as  it  passes. 

"Sticks  like  a  leech,  he  does!     He's  done  it  now!" 

A  cheer  from  the  crowd. 

Straight  down  in  midstream  now.  A  little  ahead  the  river 
bends — he  is  nearing  the  block  at  Akeanlinna. 

"Now  for  the  last  lap!" 

"Ay — and  the  worst  of  all!" 

Two — three  short  paces  back — the  log  brings  up  full 
against  the  block. 

A  leap  and  a  crash,  a  run  almost  to  the  fore  end  of  the 
log  before  he  can  check  his  pace.  The  log  is  flung  out  again 
into  the  current,  and  shivers  as  if  paralysed  by  the  blow. 
Then  the  water  carrier  it  down  again. 

The  men  at  their  posts  stare  helplessly — one  of  them  gives 
a  cry,  and  the  onlookers  shudder.  "Heavens — he's  missed 
it  now!" 

More  shouting,  and  men  running  up  and  down  the  banks; 
others  standing  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot. 

Olof  glances  at  the  mass  of  timber  by  the  rock.  A  swing 
of  the  pole,  a  sudden  deft  turn,  and  hurraing  to  the  other 
end  of  the  log  he  begins  poling  hard  across  the  stream. 

"He's  making  for  the  other  bank!" 

"He'll  never  do  it — and  there's  no  one  there  to  help!" 

"Oh — look!     He'll  be  carried  over  the  edge!" 

Hard  fighting  now.  Olof  is  striving  to  reach  the  farther 
bank,  the  current  is  drawing  the  end  of  the  log  nearer  and 
nearer  the  falls — already  the  water  is  seething  over  it. 

Two  furious  strokes,  a  swift  step,  and  another,  and,  lift- 


THE  RAPIDS  95 

ing  his  pole,  he  flies  through  the  air — toward  the  shore.  The 
pole  strikes  something,  as  all  on  the  bridge  can  hear — ^then 
he  is  lost  to  sight. 

A  rush  of  men  downstream,  crying  and  shouting.  .  .  . 

Then,  a  moment  later,  a  waving  of  hats  from  the  men  at 
Akeanlinna,  and  a  cheer  is  passed  from  group  to  group  up- 
stream.    Some  stop,  others  race  on — he  is  saved — but  how? 

Then  a  tall  figure  appears  standing  on  the  shore,  waving 
his  hand  triumphantly.  A  mighty  cheer  from  all  the  on- 
lookers and  a  waving  of  hats  and  kerchiefs.    "There  he  is!" 

Olof  walks  up  with  easy  steps,  but  the  blood  is  streaming 
down  his  face.  The  first  to  meet  him  is  a  girl,  her  face  pale, 
her  body  trembling  with  emotion.  She  is  standing  by  her- 
self— the  others  are  still  far  off. 

Olof  stops  and  hesitates — shall  he  go  to  meet  her,  or  turn 
off?  The  girl  casts  down  her  eyes.  He  draws  nearer — she 
looks  up,  and  gives  him  one  deep,  warm  glance,  and  looks 
down  again — her  cheeks  flushed. 

Olof's  face  lights  up,  and  he  lifts  his  hat  as  he  passes. 
Then  the  crowd  surges  round  him  with  shouts  of  applause. 

"Bravo!  Well  done!  Here's  the  man  that's  beaten  Koh- 
iseva!  Who's  the  best  man  now?"  Vantti  steps  forward 
and  lays  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Well  done,  lad!  'Tis 
plain  to  see  you're  not  born  to  be  drowned."  And  the  sturdy 
fellow  laughs  till  his  great  boots  shake. 

"You've  made  a  name  for  yourself  to-day,"  says  Falk. 

"  'Olof  was  a  bit  short,  maybe.  .  .  ." 

"Aha-a-a!" 

"So  now  they'll  call  you  Kohiseva — and  a  good  name  tool" 

"  Tis  as  good  as  another,"  said  Olof,  with  a  laugh.  "And 
longer,  anyway." 


96    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"And  now  we'll  go  down  to  the  mill  and  see  about  drinks 
all  round.     Twice  round,  it  ought  to  be — 'twas  worth  it  I" 

When  Olof  came  home  that  evening  a  girl  sat  anxiously 
waiting  at  Moisio. 

A  bright  rose  was  stuck  between  the  palings  of  the  fence 
beside  the  road.  Olof  sprang  across  the  ditch — ^the  girl  drew 
her  head  back  behind  the  curtain. 

He  fastened  the  rose  in  his  coat.  With  a  grateful  glance 
he  searched  the  garden,  up  towards  the  house,  but  no  one 
was  to  be  seen. 

In  the  safe  shelter  of  her  room  a  girl  sat  bowed  over  the 
table  with  her  face  hidden  in  her  arms,  crying  softly. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

WHY  are  you  so  sad  this  evening,  Olof?"  asked 
the  girl. 
"Sad?"  he  repeated,  almost  to  himself,  star- 
ing absently  before  him.    "Yes — I  wish  I  knew." 

"But  how — when  it  is  yourself — don't  you  know?" 

"No — that's  the  strange  thing  about  it.     I  don't  know." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"I  won't  ask  you  if  you  don't  like  it,"  she  said,  after  a 
while.  "But  if  I  were  sad,  and  had  a  friend,  I  should 
want  to." 

"And  make  your  friend  sad  too — by  telling  things  no  friend 
could  understand?" 

"Perhaps  a  friend  might  try." 

But  Olof  seemed  not  to  have  heard.  He  leaned  back,  and 
his  glance  wandered  vaguely. 

"Life  is  very  strange,"  he  said  dreamily.  "Isn't  it  strange 
to  have  cared  very  much  for  a  thing — and  then  one  day  to 
feel  it  as  nothing  at  all?" 

She  looked  inquiringly  at  him. 

"My  own  life,  for  instance.  Up  to  now,  it  has  been  a 
beautiful  story,  but  now  ..." 

"Now  .  .  .?" 

"Now,  I  can't  see  what  it  is — or  if  it  is  anything  at  all. 
Going  from  place  to  place,  from  river  to  river — from  one 
adventure  to  another  .  .  ." 

Again  there  was  a  pause. 

"But  why  do  you  live  so?"  she  asked  timidly.  "I  have  so 
often  wondered." 

97 


98     SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"I  wonder  myself  sometimes  why  I  must  live  so — or  if  I 
must — but  it  goes  on  all  the  same." 

"Must  .  .  .  ?  But  your  home  .  .  .  your  father  and  mother, 
are  they  still  alive?     You  have  never  spoken  of  them." 

"Yes,  they  are  still  alive." 

"And  couldn't  you  live  with  them?" 

"No,"  he  said  coldly.     "They  could  not  make  me  stay." 

"But  aren't  you  fond  of  them?"  she  asked  in  surprise. 

He  was  silent  a  moment.  "Yes,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  am 
fond  of  them — as  I  am  fond  of  many  other  things.  But 
there  is  nothing  that  can  hold  me  for  long." 

Something  within  him  was  striving  for  utterance — some- 
thing he  had  long  restrained, 

"And  now,"  he  went  on,  almost  violently,  "I  want  .  .  ." 
He  stopped. 

"You  want  .  .  .?" 

"It  is  something  to  do  with  you,  Kyllikki,"  he  said 
earnestly,  as  if  in  warning. 

"Tell  me.  You  need  not  be  afraid,"  said  the  girl  in  a 
low  voice. 

"I  want  to  say  good-bye  to  you — and  not  as  friends,"  he 
said  passionately. 

"Not — not  as  friends?" 

"That  is  what  I  said.  We  met  first — you  know  how  it 
was — it  was  no  friendly  meeting.  And  best  if  we  could 
leave  each  other  that  way  too." 

"But  why  .  .   .?" 

"Because — shall  I  tell  you?" 

"I  want  you  to." 

He  looked  her  sharply  and  coldly  in  the  eyes.  "Because 
you  have  not   been  what   I   hoped  you   would.     Ay,   and 


SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER     99 

thought  you  would.  I  was  proud  and  happy  when  I  knew 
I  had  won  your  friendship.  But  I  thought  I  had  won  more 
than  that — something  warmer  and  deeper — a  thing  com- 
plete." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Warm  and  deep — a  thing  complete?"  she  repeated.  "Did 
you  give  that  yourself?" 

"No!  But  I  could  have  done.  I  wished  to — but  you 
made  it  impossible.  We  have  known  each  other  now  for  a 
week — and  what  has  come  of  it?  I  have  scarcely  dared  to 
take  your  hand." 

"But  what  more  could  you  .  .  .?" 

"What  more?  Have  you  for  my  own — possess  you.  All 
or  nothing!" 

The  girl  seemed  struggling  with  some  inward  feeling. 

"May  I  ask  you  something?"  she  asked  softly. 

"Go  on!" 

"Have  me  for  your  own,  you  said."  She  hesitated,  but 
went  on  resolutely:  "Does  that  mean — have  me  for  your 
o\^^l  to-day,  and  go  away  to-morrow — and  then,  perhaps, 
think  of  me  at  times  as  one  among  a  host  of  others  you 
have  'possessed'?" 

He  shot  a  glance  at  her,  almost  of  hatred,  but  said  no  word. 

"Perhaps,"  went  on  the  girl  calmly,  "perhaps  you  too  have 
not  been  what  I  hoped  and  thought.     If  you  had  .  .  ." 

"What  then?"  he  asked  quickly,  as  if  in  challenge. 

"Then  you  would  not — speak  as  you  are  doing  now,"  she 
answered  evasively.  "And  perhaps  what  makes  you  angry 
now  is  only  this — that  you  can  never  have  more  than  you 
are  able  to  take  yourself." 

He  looked  at  her  in  wonder. 


100  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"And  perhaps" — her  voice  was  scarcely  audible  now — 
"perhaps  you  cannot  take  more  than  you  are  able  to  keep?" 

She  looked  down  in  confusion,  hardly  knowing  what  she 
had  said,  only  that  she  had  been  forced  to  say  it. 

He  sat  watching  her  for  a  while  thoughtfully,  as  if  he 
had  heard  something  new  and  unexpected,  and  was  ponder- 
ing over  it. 

"You  must  have  known  yourself  that  I  could  never  keep- 
er keep  to — anyone,"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  know  that,"  she  answered;  "you  don't  want  to." 

It  was  as  if  a  fine,  sharp  thorn  had  pierced  him  to  the 
heart,  and  left  its  point  there.  The  two  sat  looking  at  each 
other  without  a  word. 

"And  if  I  would  .  .  ."  He  grasped  her  hand  earnestly. 
"Do  you  think  I  might  dare?" 

The  girl  turned  pale,  and  did  not  speak. 

"Answer  me,"  he  said  insistently. 

"Surely  each  must  know  that  for  himself,"  she  answered 
at  last,  speaking  with  difficulty. 

"Kyllikki,  Kyllikki,  if  you  only  knew!"  he  cried  sorrow- 
fully, and  took  her  hands  in  his.  Then  a  sudden  coldness 
came  over  him  once  more. 

"And  if  I  were  to  dare,"  he  said,  "there  is  one  other 
besides  you  and  me." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  him?"  she  asked  sharply. 

"No.     But  if  he  turned  me  from  his  door  in  scorn  .  .  ." 

"If  the  thought  of  that  counts  for  so  much,"  she  said,  with 
emphasis,  "then  it  were  better  not  to  ask.  For,  after — 
whom  would  you  love  more,  do  you  think;  yourself,  or  the 
one  you  think  you  love?" 

He  winced  under  her  glance. 


SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER  101 

"If  it  were  for  your  sake  I  feared?"  he  asked,  with  some 
feeling. 

"No  need  of  that — as  long  as  I  know  you  are  sure  in  your 
own  mind.  And  if  you  were  sure — you  need  have  no  fear 
for  me." 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise  and  admiration. 

"You  are  a  strange  girl,  Kyllikki,"  he  said  at  last.  "I 
am  only  just  beginning  to  understand  you.  You  are  not  as 
I  hoped  yoy  would  be — but  you  are  something  more.  I 
know  what  it  must  have  cost  you  to  say  so  much.  I  shall 
not  forget." 

Again  the  trouble  rose  \vithin  him.  "You,  I  understand," 
he  said  wearily.     "Yes.     But  myself " 

"You  will  find  that  out  as  well,  some  day,"  she  said 
tenderly. 

"If  only  there  was  time  now.  .  .  ."  He  sat  for  a  moment 
in  thought. 

"We  are  leaving  to-morrow  afternoon.  If  I  have  got 
things  clear  in  my  mind  by  then,  I  will  come  and  see  you 
before  we  go.  But  it  will  be  at  the  last  minute.  For  if  it 
comes  to  what  I  think  it  will,  then  I  must  not  stay  a  moment 
longer." 

The  girl  nodded.     Both  rose  to  their  feet. 

"Kyllikki,"  he  said,  with  emotion,  taking  her  hands,  "it 
may  be  this  is  the  last  time  I  see  you  alone.  Do  not  think 
hardly  of  me  because  I  am  what  I  am." 

"You  could  not  be  otherwise,"  she  answered  warmly.  "I 
understand." 

"I  shall  be  grateful  to  you  for  that  always.  And  per- 
haps .  .  ."     His  voice  broke.     "Good-bye,  Kyllikki  1" 


102  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon.  The  lumbermen  were  getting 
ready  to  leave.  The  young  folk  of  the  village,  and  some  of 
the  elders,  had  come  down  to  the  creek  at  Kohiseva  to  see 
them  start. 

The  water  was  almost  clear  of  timber  already,  the  boom 
was  being  dragged  slowly  down  the  dead  water  by  a  few  of 
the  men.  Some  went  ahead,  getting  odd  logs  out  of  the  way, 
others  strolled  idly  about  on  the  shore,  exchanging  greetings 
with  the  villagers. 

A  little  way  down  the  bank  a  log  is  stranded  with  one  end 
thrust  far  inshore.     Close  by  it  lies  a  pole. 

"That's  Olof's,"  says  one  of  the  men.  "He's  not  come 
down  yet — busy  up  at  the  village,  it  seems." 

A  girl  in  the  group  of  lookers-on  felt  her  heart  beat 
suddenly. 

"H'm — ^left  it  to  ride  down  on,  I  suppose.  Wants  to  take 
another  turn  down  the  rapids  before  he  goes." 

"Ay,  that's  it.  Likes  that  way  better  than  going  on  a 
raft  like  ordinary  folk.     That's  him  coming  down,  isn't  it?" 

Olof  came  racing  down  like  the  wind. 

A  girl  in  the  group  turned  pale.  She  could  see  from  his 
manner  what  had  passed.  Something  terrible  it  must  have 
been  to  bring  him  do\\Ti  in  a  fury  like  that. 

He  came  nearer.  His  face  was  deadly  pale,  his  lips  com- 
pressed, and  his  eyes  flashed,  though  he  looked  out  over  the 
water  all  the  time. 

He  raised  his  hat  as  he  passed  the  group,  but  without  a 
glance  at  anyone. 

"What's  happened  now?"  The  question  was  in  all  eyes, 
but  no  one  spoke. 


SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER  103 

Olof  grasped  his  pole,  thrust  off  the  log,  and  sprang  out 
on  it.  He  took  a  few  powerful  strokes,  and  turned,  casting 
his  eyes  over  the  group  on  the  shore.  He  was  looking  for 
one  amongst  them — and  found  her. 

"Good-bye!"  he  cried,  waving  his  hat. 

"Good-bye — good-bye!  Come  again  some  day  to  Kohi- 
seva!" 

The  men  waved  their  hats,  the  girls  fluttered  kerchiefs  in 
farewell. 

Olof  was  still  facing  toward  the  shore,  paddling  slowly 
out  across  the  creek. 

Those  on  shore  would  have  sent  him  a  friendly  word,  but 
no  one  spoke — all  were  looking  at  a  girl  whose  face  was 
strangely  pale. 

Paler  than  ever  it  seemed  as  the  man  stopped  rowing, 
and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  group. 

"Ay,  cast  your  coins  in  a  beggar's  hat, 
And  he'll  bless  your  charity. 
I  was  good  enough  for  the  girl  I  loved, 
But  her  kin  were  prouder  than  she!" 

There  was  a  depth  of  bitterness  in  the  words — the  listen- 
ers started  involuntarily. 

"What's  taken  him  all  at  once?  Never  heard  him  sing 
that  way  before!" 

"Sh!     Listen!" 

The  singer  glanced  down  at  the  water,  took  a  few  strokes 
out,  and  went  qji: 

"My  home  is  where  the  rapids  roar, 

Below  the  river's  brink. 
All  the  rivers  of  all  the  world — 
Who  cares  if  he  swim  or  sink?" 


104  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

The  listeners  glanced  at  one  another — the  meaning  of  the 
song  was  gro\ving  clear. 

"  Twas  no  spring  day  that  gave  me  life 
With  sunlit  skies  and  clear, 
But  a  leafless  gloom  that  sent  me  forth 
To  wander  many  a  year. 

My  mother  wept  in  her  garden  lone, 

Or  ever  I  was  born; 
Looked  at  a  blood-red  flower  and  wept 

For  that  her  heart  was  torn." 

He  was  midway  across  now,  paddling  slowly,  bending  a 
little  forward.     Those  on  the  shore  stood  still,  waiting. 

"And  that  same  flower  grew  red  in  my  way, 
And  I  wished  it  for  my  own. 
I  won  but  little  joy  of  its  bloom 
That  was  in  sorrow  grown. 

But  little  joy  when  my  father  rose 

And  drove  me  from  his  door. 
And  my  mother  wept  as  I  went  to  seek 

What  sorrow  was  yet  in  store." 

A  girl  was  crying  softly.     The  rest  stood  silent. 

"0  blood-red  flower,  O  flame-red  flower. 

That  ever  you  grew  so  red! 
Ask  of  my  love  if  she  knows  you  now, 
When  all  her  tears  are  shedl" 

With  a  wave  of  his  hand  the  singer  turned,  and  made  his 
way  swiftly  across  the  river. 

Those  on  the  shore  waved  in  return,  and  stood  watching 
and  waving  long,  but  he  did  not  look  back. 


WATER-SPRITE  AND  WATER-WITCH 

SLOWLY  the  river  flowed;  the  waves  plashed,  and  the 
reeds  swayed  lightly. 
Green  pine  woods  on  one  shore;  the  other  was  field 
and  meadow,  with  a  road  running  through  a  little  distance 
from  the  bank. 

A  girl  came  walking  down  the  road,  casting  an  anxious 
glance  now  and  again  towards  the  river. 

She  stopped.  A  boom  lay  out  in  the  river,  lumbermen's 
poles  were  stre^^Ti  about  on  the  farther  bank.  And  some- 
thing more — a  man  lay  under  the  trees  at  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  resting  his  head  on  one  hand. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  The  man  did  not 
move.  Still  in  doubt,  she  took  a  step  forward,  and  then 
drew  back  again.  At  last,  she  turned  off  from  the  road,  and 
walked  resolutely  down  along  a  watercourse  straight  towards 
the  river. 

Mingled  emotion  stirred  in  the  young  man's  breast — joy 
at  the  meeting,  and  wounded  pride  and  bitterness.  He  felt 
an  impulse  to  hurry  across,  run  to  the  girl  and  take  her  in 
his  arms,  forgetting  all  else.  But  there  was  that  between 
them  cold  and  clear  as  the  dividing  water. 

The  girl  reached  the  bank,  and  stood  looking  out  over  the 
water  in  silence. 

The  young  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  "You 
have  comel"  he  cried. 

105 


106  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"How  could  I  help  it?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice — the  words 
hardly  carried  to  the  opposite  bank. 

"And  I  could  net  help  thinking  of  you." 

The  river  looked  at  the  pair.     "If  only  I  were  frozen  over !" 

"Couldn't  you — couldn't  you  come  across — just  for  a 
moment?"  asked  the  girl  timidly. 

"Just  what  I  was  going  to  do.  But  we  can't  stay  there  on 
the  bank — the  men  will  be  coming  down  directly." 

He  thought  for  a  moment. 

"Will  you  come  over  here  if  I  come  to  fetch  you?  Then 
we  can  go  up  in  the  woods  where  no  one  can  see.  Come 
over  on  the  raft." 

"Yes,  I  could  do  that!" 

He  took  up  his  pole  and  set  the  raft  loose — a  couple  of 
tree  trunks,  no  more,  fastened  together  with  withies — and 
rowed  hurriedly  across  to  the  opposite  bank. 

"Like  a  dear  sister  she  comes,"  he  thought  to  himself,  as 
he  helped  her  on  to  the  raft.  The  girl  held  his  hands  and 
looked  deep  into  his  eyes,  but  without  speaking. 

"Sit  there  on  the  crosspiece — you  can't  stand  up  when  it 
begins  to  move." 

She  sat  do'u-n  obediently,  and  he  rowed  across. 

"I  never  thought  you  could  be  such  a  friend,"  he  said,  as 
they  stepped  ashore. 

"Friend?"  said  the  girl,  with  a  tender,  grateful  glance — 
grateful  that  he  had  found  the  very  word  for  the  feeling  that 
had  brought  her  thither,  and  which  had  cost  her  so  much 
already. 


WATER-SPRITE  AND  WATER-WITCH  107 

The  sun  was  setting.  A  youth  and  a  girl  walked  down 
from  the  woods  towards  the  river  bank,  talking  together. 

Then  suddenly  they  awoke  from  their  dreams,  and  looked 
at  each  other  in  dismay.  The  river  was  a  waste  of  water 
only,  the  banks  deserted,  the  raft  gone — neither  of  them  had 
thought  of  how  they  were  to  get  back. 

"What  are  we  to  do?"  The  mute  question  was  in  the  eyes 
of  both. 

"You  can't  get  back  along  this  bank?"  said  the  young 
man  at  last. 

"All  through  Vaha-Kohiseva  village  and  over  the  bridge — 
no.     And  I  ought  to  bring  the  calves  home,  too." 

"There's  no  boat  anywhere  near?" 

"No." 

A  gleam  of  resolution  shone  in  the  young  man's  eyes. 

"Can  you  swim?"  he  asked  suddenly,  turning  towards  her. 

"Swim?"  she  repeated  in  surprise.  Then  her  face  lit  up 
as  she  grasped  his  meaning.     "Yes,  indeed!" 

"And  would  you  swim  across  with  me  if  I  carry  your 
clothes?" 

She  trembled  slightly — it  was  a  daring  plan,  yet  there 
was  a  certain  secret  fascination  in  the  thought. 

"With  you?     Yes!"  she  cried. 

"Good.  You  can  undress  here.  Then  roll  up  all  your 
clothes  in  your  blouse,  and  tie  it  round  with  the  sleeves. 
I'll  go  a  little  way  off  and  get  ready.  We'll  manage  all 
right,  you  see." 

And  he  strode  off  with  rapid  steps. 

But  the  girl  flushed,  and  looked  anxiously  around,  as  if 
she  had  promised  more  than  she  could  fulfil.     She  glanced 


108  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

along  the  shore — Olof  was  sitting  a  little  distance  away,  with 
his  back  to  her,  already  undressing. 

"How  childish  I  am!"  she  thought.  And  stepping  briskly 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  she  began  hastily  taking  off  her 
clothes. 

A  splash  in  the  water — Olof  was  almost  lost  to  sight  in 
the  reeds.  He  took  off  his  boots  and  hung  them  by  one 
lace  round  his  neck,  then  he  fixed  his  bundle  of  clothes 
above,  and  tied  it  with  the  remaining  lace. 

"Ready?"  he  called  over  his  shoulder,  glancing  down  the 
stream. 

Hurriedly  the  girl  rolled  her  garments  up  in  the  blouse. 
Her  white  body  shivered — in  womanly  embarrassment  at  her 
position,  and  with  an  ecstatic  delight.  Then  with  a  splash 
the  white  figure  dipped  beneath  the  water,  swam  up,  and 
hid  in  the  reeds. 

Olof  swam  upstream,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  heap  of  clothing, 
and  a  faint  smile  on  his  lips.  He  took  the  bundle,  tied  his 
belt  round  it,  and  fastened  it  above  his  own.  The  double 
load  stood  up  high  above  his  head. 

"They'll  be  all  right  now — if  I  don't  make  a  mess  of  it," 
he  assured  her. 

With  long,  slow  strokes  he  made  for  the  opposite  shore. 
The  girl  stood  motionless  in  the  reeds,  watching  him  as  he 
swam. 

"How  strong  and  bold  he  is!"  she  thought.  "And  the 
wonderful  things  he  does !  What  does  he  care  for  the  river  ? 
— water  between  us  is  nothing  to  him.  He  makes  everything 
do  his  will.     How  could  one  be  afraid  with  him?" 

''Her  clothes!"  thought  Olof.     "And  I  am  carrying  them." 


WATER-SPRITE  AND  WATER-WITCH  109 

He  reached  the  bank,  untied  the  girl's  bundle,  and  set  it 
carefully  ashore.  Then  swnmming  a  little  farther  down,  he 
flung  his  own  things  up  on  land. 

"Haven't  you  started  yet?"  he  called  across  to  the  girl — 
though  he  had  been  hoping  all  the  time  that  she  had  not. 

"No — I  was  just  going  to,"  she  replied.  "I — I  forgot. 
It  was  such  fun  watching  you." 

"I'll  come  and  meet  you,  if  you  like.  It'll  be  safer 
perhaps.  .  .  ." 

"Ye — es,"  said  the  girl. 

She  felt  no  shame  now,  though  he  was  looking  straight  at 
her.  He  was  filled  with  the  strange  delight  that  comes  with 
any  stepping  over  the  bounds  of  ever>'day  life  into  a  world 
of  fairyland,  where  all  is  pure,  and  nothing  is  forbidden, 
where  the  sense  of  being  two  that  go  their  own  ways  unseen 
is  like  a  purging,  fusing  flame. 

Olof  swam  rapidly  across. 

"You  look  like  a  water-witch  there  in  the  reeds,"  he  cried 
delightedly,  checking  his  stroke. 

"And  you're  the  water-sprite,"  she  answered,  with  a  joyous 
smile,  as  she  struck  out. 

"Bravo,  water-witch,  you're  swimming  splendidly!"  he 
cried.  They  were  swimming  side  by  side  now,  straight  across 
the  river. 

The  water  rippled  lightly  about  them;  now  and  again  the 
girl's  white  shoulder  lifted  above  the  surface,  her  long  hair 
trailed  behind  over  the  water,  that  shone  like  gold  in  the 
sunset  light. 

"Wonderful!"  he  cried.  "I've  never  seen  anything  so 
lovely." 

"Nor  I !"  said  the  girl. 


110  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"Nor  we!"  laughed  the  trees  behind  them. 

"Nor  we!"  nodded  the  bushes  on  the  bank  in  front. 

"It  is  like  swimming  in  the  river  of  forgetfulness,"  he 
went  on.  "All  the  past  disappears,  all  that  was  bitter  and 
evil  is  washed  away,  and  we  are  but  two  parts  of  the  same 
beautiful  being  that  surrounds  us." 

"Yes,  it  is  like  that,"  said  the  girl,  with  feeling. 

Slowly  they  came  to  land. 

"It  was  very  narrow,  after  all,"  said  Olof  regretfully,  as 
he  turned  from  her  and  went  down  to  fetch  his  clothes.  He 
dressed  as  quickly  as  he  could,  and  hurried  up  to  her  again. 

"Let  me  WTing  the  water  from  your  hair,"  he  begged. 

She  smiled  permission.  The  water  fell  like  drops  of  silver 
from  his  hands. 

"Must  you  go  now?"  asked  Olof  sadly.  "Let  me  go 
with  you  as  far  as  the  road  at  least." 

Once  more  he  looked  regretfully  at  the  river — as  if  to  fix 
the  recollection  in  his  mind. 

They  walked  up  to  the  road  without  speaking,  and  stopped. 

"It's  ever  so  hard  for  me  to  say  good-bye  to  you,"  he  said, 
grasping  her  hands. 

"Harder  still  for  me,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"Shall  I  ever  forget  you — you,  and  this  evening?" 

Her  eyelids  quivered,  and  she  bowed  her  head. 

"Kyllikki!"  he  cried  desperately.  "Would  you  hide  your 
eyes  from  me? — Kyllikki  ..."  There  was  hope  and 
doubt  in  his  eyes;  he  loosed  his  hold  of  her  hands,  and 
clasped  his  owti  as  if  questioningly  about  her  waist. 

The  girl  was  trembling.  She  laid  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  and  then  slowly  twined  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

A  tumult  of  delight  came  over  him.     He  pressed  her  to 


WATER-SPRITE  AND  WATER-WITCH  111 

him  fervently,  lifting  her  off  her  feet — her  arms  drew  closer 
round  him. 

He  saw  the  look  in  her  eyes  change — giddiness  seized  him, 
and  he  set  her  down. 

"May  I  .  .  .?"  he  asked,  with  his  eyes. 

Her  eyes  consented — and  their  lips  met.  .  ,  . 

When  at  last  he  let  her  go,  the  girl's  face  was  changed 
almost  beyond  recognition.  On  her  under  lip  showed  a  tiny 
drop  of  blood. 

A  cry  of  dismay  rose  up  in  him,  but  remained  unuttered. 
A  strange  intoxication  overpowered  him — the  red  drop  there 
was  the  seal  of  a  friendship  deeper  and  more  mysterious 
than  all  else — in  a  wild  kiss  he  drank  the  blood  from  her 
lip.  He  felt  himself  on  the  point  of  swooning — and  wished 
the  world  would  end  tliere,  in  that  moment. 

He  could  not  speak — he  did  not  know  whether  to  stay  or 
go.  A  darkness  seemed  to  close  about  him,  and  he  staggered 
off  like  a  drunken  man,  without  looking  back. 


THE  CAMP-FIRE  AT  NEITOKALLIO 

A  LEAGUE  of  swft-flowing  river,  almost  straight, 
with  gently  sloping  meadows,  forest -crowned,  on 
either  hand. 

A  grand,  impressive  sight  at  all  seasons.  In  autumn,  the 
swollen  waters  pour  down  as  from  a  cornucopia;  in  winter, 
folk  from  tlie  town  come  driving  over  the  frozen  flood,  racing 
one  against  another;  in  spring,  the  river  overflows  its  banks, 
spreading  silt  on  the  meadows  as  in  the  land  of  the  Nile; 
and  in  summer,  the  ha}Tnakers  are  lulled  by  the  song  of  the 
grasshoppers  and  the  scent  of  the  hay  to  dream  of  paradise, 
where  the  children  of  men  even  now  may  enter  in  for  some 
few  days  in  every  year. 

A  league  of  river,  a  league  of  meadow  land — but  at  one 
spot  two  great  rocks  stand  out  as  if  on  guard. 

One  rises  from  the  very  verge,  the  water  lapping  its  foot  as 
it  stands  dreaming  and  gazing  over  to  its  fellow  of  the  farther 
side.     Neitokallio  is  its  name. 

The  other  is  more  cold  and  proud.  It  stands  drawn  back 
a  little  way  from  the  bank,  with  head  uplifted  as  in  chal- 
lenge, looking  out  through  the  treetops  across  the  plain.  And 
this  is  Valimaki. 

At  the  foot  of  Valimaki  a  camp-fire  was  burning.  It  was 
midnight.  A  group  of  lumbermen  were  gathered  round  the 
fire,  some  lying  stretched  out  with  knapsacks  under  their 
heads,  some  leaning  one  against  another.  Blue  clouds  of 
smoke  curled  up  from  their  pipes. 

112 


THE  CA^IP-FIRE  AT  NEITOKALLIO    113 

The  red  fire  glowed  and  glowed,  flaring  up  now  and  again 
into  bright  flame,  tinging  the  fir  stems  on  the  slope  as  if  with 
blood,  and  throwing  weird  reflections  out  on  to  the  dark 
waters  of  the  river.     The  men  sat  in  silence  over  their  pipes. 

"Look!"  said  one  at  last,  nodding  up  towards  the  head  of 
the  rock.  "Looks  almost  as  if  she  was  sitting  there  still, 
looking  down  into  the  river." 

Several  nodded  assent. 

"Maybe  there  is  someone  sitting  there." 

"Nay,  'tis  only  a  bit  of  a  bush  or  something.  But  'tis 
the  very  same  spot  where  she  sat,  that's  true." 

"What's  the  story?"  asks  one — a  newcomer,  on  his  first 
trip  to  Nuolijoki.     "Some  fairy  tale  or  other?" 

"Fair}'  tale?"  one  of  the  elders  breaks  in.  "You're  a 
stranger,  young  man,  that's  plain  to  see.  'Tis  a  true  story 
enough,  and  not  so  long  since  it  all  happened  neither." 

"Fourteen  years,"  says  Antti,  knocking  the  ashes  from  his 
pipe.  "I  remember  it  all  as  plain  as  yesterday.  Ay,  there's 
queer  things  happen  in  life." 

"Did  you  see  it  yourself,  then?" 

"Ay,  I  did  that — and  not  likely  to  forget  it.  Twas  on 
that  rock  I  saw  her  first  time,  and  a  young  lad  with  her." 

Some  of  the  men  sat  up  and  began  filling  their  pipes  afresh. 

"Her  betrothed,  maybe?" 

"Ay — or  something  like  it.  I  didn't  know  at  the  time.  I 
was  clearing  stray  logs  here  on  the  shore,  and  saw  them  sitting 
up  there  together,  looking  at  the  water.  I  sat  down  too  for  a 
bit,  and  lit  a  pipe,  and  thinking  to  myself;  well,  water's 
water,  and  water  it'll  be  for  all  their  looking.  Anyhow,  I 
doubt  they  must  look  at  something,  just  to  pass  the  time." 

"Well,  and  what  then?     What  happened?" 


114   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"Nay,  they  did  but  sit  there  a  bit  and  then  went  away. 
But  next  day  again,  I  was  working  there  same  as  before, 
and  there's  my  young  miss  a-sitting  there  in  the  very  spot — 
only  nobody  with  her  this  time." 

Olof  had  been  lying  on  his  back,  hands  under  his  head, 
looking  up  into  the  darkness.  All  at  once  he  sat  up,  and 
stared  at  the  speaker. 

"  'Twas  a  queer  girl,  thinks  I,  and  lights  my  pipe.  Walk- 
ing all  those  miles  out  from  the  town  to  sit  on  a  rock — as  if 
there  wasn't  rocks  enough  elsewhere.  Anyway,  'twas  no 
business  of  mine.  And  after  that  she  was  there  every  day — 
just  about  midday,  always  the  same  time,  and  always  sitting 
just  there  in  one  place." 

"But  what  was  she  doing  there?" 

"Doing?  Nay,  she  wasn't  doing  anything.  Just  sitting 
there,  and  staring  like." 

"  'Twas  Antti  she  was  staring  at — that'll  be  it,"  laughed 
one.  "You  must  have  been  a  fine  young  fellow  those  days, 
Antti!" 

"You  keep  your  tongue  between  your  teeth,  young  fellow; 
'tis  no  laughing  matter  I'm  telling  you." 

The  men  looked  at  one  another,  and  nodded.  A  faint 
breath  of  wind  sighed  through  the  trees  on  the  slope,  a  pair 
of  twin  stems  creaked  one  against  the  other  with  a  melan- 
choly sound.     The  men  puffed  at  their  pipes. 

"Well,  there  she  sits,  and  never  song  nor  word  to  hear. 
Lord  knows  what  she'd  be  thinking  of  all  the  time.  Then 
one  day  I  came  down  to  the  river,  and  was  going  over  to 
Metsamantile  for  some  butter.  Just  passing  by  the  rock  I 
was,  and  there  she  is  all  of  a  sudden,  coming  towards  me, 
and  all  dressed  in  black  from  top  to  toe." 


THE  CAMP-FIRE  AT  NEITOKALLIO    115 

"Ho!" 

"I  was  all  taken  aback,  you  can  think.  She'd  a  black 
veil  over  her  face,  and  all.  But  a  sweet,  pretty  thing  to  see, 
ay,  that  she  was — like  a  blessed  angel.  I  pulled  off  my  cap, 
and  she  looks  up  at  me  and  nods.  And  it  gave  me  such  a 
queer  sort  of  feeling,  I  just  turned  round  and  stood  staring 
after  her." 

"Was  it  just  a  young  girl?" 

"Young?  Ay,  no  more  than  twenty,  at  most.  Well,  I 
stood  there  watching  her  till  she's  out  of  sight  among  the 
trees.  And  then  it  all  seemed  clear  enough.  'Twas  her 
father  or  mother  was  dead,  no  doubt,  and  that's  why  she 
came  out  here  all  alone,  for  comfort,  like.  Anyway,  I  was 
going  on.  Then,  just  past  the  rock  there's  a  man  calls  out, 
'She's  gone!' 

"I  was  near  falling  backwards  at  that.  I  called  out  to 
see  what  was  the  matter,  and  ran  down  to  the  shore. 

"  'Thrown  herself  down!'  cries  out  the  other  man,  and  goes 
racing  off  down  to  the  water. 

"We  both  ran  all  we  could,  but  there  was  nothing  to  see. 
We  waited  a  bit,  but  she  didn't  come  up.  So  I  went  off  to 
the  village,  and  the  other  man  to  the  town, 

"They  got  her  up  after — at  the  first  haul.  She'd  gone 
down  like  a  stone  to  the  bottom,  just  at  the  spot.  But  there 
was  no  getting  her  to  life  again,  try  all  we  could.  Just  as 
beautiful  to  look  at  she  was,  for  all  she  was  dead.  Ay,  a 
lovely  thing,  a  lovely  thing.  We'd  had  to  undo  her  clothes 
a  bit,  trying  to  bring  her  round,  and  her  skin — 'twas  like 
white  silk.  Seemed  almost  a  sin  to  touch  her  with  our  rough 
hands  and  all.  .  .  ." 


116   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

No  one  spoke  for  a  while. 

"And  was  it  just  for  sorrow,  like?"  asked  one  at  last. 

"Ay,  sorrow  enough.  But  'twas  neither  father  nor  mother 
she  was  sorrowing  for." 

"Ah!  .  .  .  'Twas  a  lover,  then?  Maybe  she'd  got  into 
trouble." 

"Nay,  'twas  none  of  that  sort.  Just  set  on  him — the  young 
lad  she'd  been  sitting  there  with  at  first — and  he'd  left  her, 
that  was  all." 

The  men  sat  in  silence.  Olof's  heart  was  beating  so  that 
he  almost  feared  the  rest  must  hear  it.  His  eyelids  quivered, 
and  his  brow  was  furrowed  deep  as  he  sat  staring  into  the 
fire. 

"  'Tis  that  way  sometimes  with  fine  folk  when  they're  in 
love,"  murmured  one. 

"  'Tis  a  woman's  way  altogether,"  put  in  another,  with  an 
attempt  at  gaiety,  as  if  to  dispel  the  feeling  of  gloom.  "Their 
heart's  like  a  flimsy  fairing — little  watch  looks  all  right,  but 
just  shake  it  a  bit,  and  'tis  all  to  pieces." 

"Maybe  'tis  so  with  fine  folk  and  ladies  and  such,  but 
peasant  girls  are  not  so  foolish.  More  like  a  grandfather's 
clock,  say.  Anything  goes  wrong,  you've  only  to  give  it  a 
shake,  let  it  stop  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  shake  it  again,  and 
scold  it  a  bit — and  it's  as  right  as  ever.  Go  any  way  you 
Hke." 

The  men  laughed — it  was  a  relief  to  turn  to  something 
lighter. 

"Ay,  you're  right  there,"  put  in  a  stout  fellow  with  a 
loud  voice.  "  'Twas  so  with  my  old  woman  once  when  she 
was  young.  Got  set  on  a  bit  of  a  greenhorn  chap,  all  soft  as 
butter,  and  took  it  badly.     But  I  saw  'twas  no  good  for  her 


THE  CAMP-FIRE  AT  NEITOKALLIO    117 

nor  anyone,  and  heaved  him  out  of  the  way  and  took  her 
myself.  And  well  I  did,  for  she's  never  troubled  a  thought 
about  him  since." 

A  shout  of  laughter  went  up  from  the  men.  They  had 
recovered  their  spirits  now. 

"Ay,  you  may  laugh,"  said  an  elderly  man.  "But  'tis  not 
every  man  that  troubles  if  what  he  thinks  best  is  best  for  a 
woman  herself."  He  paused  a  moment,  and  sat  cleaning  his 
pipe  with  a  straw.  "There's  girls  of  our  own  sort  that  can't 
be  handled  that  way  to  any  good — and  there's  both  men  and 
girls  that  don't  take  things  so  lightly." 

There  was  an  earnest  ring  in  his  voice,  a  note  almost  of 
pain,  and  the  men  ceased  to  smile.  Olof  turned  in  surprise, 
and  looked  at  the  speaker — some  of  the  others  were  making 
signs  behind  the  old  man's  back. 

"I  know  one  man  at  least,"  he  went  on,  "that  loved  a  girl 
when  he  was  young,  and  couldn't  marry  her.  He  didn't  go 
off  and  kill  himself — but  it  marked  him,  none  the  less,  for 
all  he  was  only  a  peasant  himself.  Sold  his  place,  he  did, 
and  drank  away  the  money,  and  wandered  about  the  rest  of 
his  life  to  this  day — and  never  forgotten  her." 

The  old  man  was  silent. 

"Ay,  'tis  plain  to  see  she's  in  his  mind  now  that  he's  old 
and  grey,"  said  one  who  had  pointed  to  the  speaker  before. 

The  old  man  bowed  his  head,  and  pulled  his  cap  down 
over  his  eyes;  but  they  could  see  a  quiver  in  his  face,  and 
the  brass-bound  pipe-stem  trembled  in  his  hand. 

The  men  exchanged  glances;  none  seemed  wishful  to 
speak. 

"Ay,  'tis  no  light  thing  to  play  with,"  said  one  at  last. 
"And  each  knows  best  what  he's  learned  for  himself." 


118   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

Again  a  sighing  of  the  trees  on  the  hillside,  and  a  mourn- 
ful sound  from  the  straining  stems.  The  coming  dawn  threw 
a  grey  light  on  the  rocky  face  of  Neitokallio;  far  over  the 
meadows  a  bird  was  calling. 

"Getting  light — 'tis  time  we  were  about,"  said  Olof,  rising 
to  his  feet. 

The  men  stared  at  him  in  wonder;  his  voice  was  strange 
and  hard  as  that  of  the  old  man  who  had  spoken  before. 

"Up  with  you — come!"  said  Olof,  with  sudden  impatience. 
And,  turning  abruptly,  he  strode  down  to  the  shore. 

The  men  stared  after  him,  then,  rising,  covered  their  fire, 
and  followed  down  to  the  river. 


HAWTHORN 

NO!  I  must  live  while  I  am  young;  breathe  freely 
while  I  can !  But  you,  Hawthorn — do  you  know 
what  life  is?" 

"Yes,"  the  girl  answered  fervently;  "it  is  love!" 

"It  is  something  else  besides.  Youth  and  spring  and 
courage — and  fate,  that  brings  the  children  of  men  together." 

"Yes  .  .  .?  I  wonder  why  I  never  thought  of  that  my- 
self." 

"WTiat  does  it  matter  what  we  think?  We  drift  along, - 
knowing  nothing  of  one  another,  like  the  errant  winds  or 
the  stars  in  the  skies.  We  pass  by  hundreds,  without  so 
much  as  a  glance,  until  fate  as  in  a  lightning  flash  brings  us 
face  to  face  with  the  one  appointed.  And  then — in  a  moment 
we  know  that  we  belong  to  each  other,  we  are  drawn  together 
by  magnetic  force — for  good  or  ill." 

"I  have  felt  the  same — and  I  feel  it  more  keenly  now  than 
ever,"  answered  the  girl,  nestling  trustingly  close  to  him. 
"Each  minute  in  your  arms  is  worth  more  than  all  the  rest 
of  my  life  before." 

"And  you  are  to  me  as  the  sap  of  the  trees  in  spring,  that 
thrills  me  with  ecstasy  and  makes  me  forget  all  else.  And  I 
•mil  feel  it  so! — drowTi  my  sad  autumn  and  my  joyless  winter 
in  the  delight  of  spring.  And  I  bless  the  fate  that  led  you 
to  me — there  is  none  like  you!" 

"None?"  the  girl  repeated  happily,  and  yet  in  doubt.  "Oh, 
if  only  I  could  be  as  you  think." 

119 


120   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"You  are  so!  Every  drop  of  blood  in  you  is  love  and 
fire.  The  lightest  touch  of  your  shoe  against  my  foot  is 
more  than  the  warmest  embrace  from  any  other — your  breath 
is  like  a  secret  caress;  you  bring  a  scent  of  hawthorn  with 
you  everywhere  that  lifts  me  almost  to  madness." 

"Do  not  talk  like  that,  Olof.  I  am  nothing — it  is  you 
that  are  all.     Tell  me — are  all  lovers  as  happy  as  we?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?     Is  it  because  they — ^they  can't  love  as  we  do?" 

"They  dare  not !  They  fear  to  be  happy.  Oh,  how  blind 
the  world  is!  Wandering  sadly  with  prayer  book  and  cate- 
chism in  hand,  when  love  and  spring  are  waiting  for  all  who 
will.  And  those  who  have  grown  old,  when  their  blood  is 
as  lead  in  their  veins,  and  they  can  but  gaze  with  beggars' 
eyes  on  their  own  youth — they  would  have  us  too  slaves  of  the 
prayer-book  and  catechism  like  themselves." 

"Is  it  really  so  .  .  .  ?" 

"Yes,  it  is  true.  Only  while  we  are  young,  only  while  the 
flood  of  youth  runs  free  and  bright  in  our  veins  can  we  be 
happy.  And  they  are  the  greatest  who  dare  to  demand  their 
share  of  life  in  full,  to  plunge  unafraid  into  the  waters,  letting 
the  waves  break  on  their  temples  and  life's  salt  flood  wash 
their  cheeks." 

"And  have  I  dared  all  this,  Olof?     Tell  me,  have  I  not?" 

"Yes,  you  have.  And  it  is  just  that  which  makes  you 
lovely  and  bewitching  as  you  are.  It  is  a  glorious  thing  to 
give  oneself  up  entirely  to  another,  without  question,  without 
thought  of  return  or  reckoning — only  to  bathe  body  and  soul 
in  the  deep  wells  of  life!" 

"Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  And,  do  you  know,  Olof  .  .  .?"  The 
girl  spoke  earnestly,  with  a  quiver  in  her  voice. 


HAWTHORN  121 

"What?     Tell  me?" 

But  she  could  say  no  more,  and,  bursting  into  tears,  hid 
her  burning  cheek  against  his  breast,  her  body  shaking  with 
sobs. 

"What — child,  you  are  crying?     What  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  ."  The  girl  was  sobbing  still.  "Only 
that  I  can't — can't  give  you  all  I  would." 

"But  you  have  given  me  more  than  I  ever  dared  to  hope 
for!" 

"Not  so  much  as  I  gladly  would!  Why  do  you  not  ask 
more  of  me?  Tell  me  to  die  with  you,  and  I  am  ready — I 
could  die  by  fire  with  you.  Or  take  my  life  now,  here,  this 
moment.  .  .  ." 

The  fire  of  her  increasing  passion  seemed  to  have  sent 
out  a  spark  that  glowed  and  burned  in  his  soul. 

"How  can  you  speak  so?"  he  asked,  almost  in  dread.  "It 
is  madness,  child." 

"Madness — yes.  But  if  you  knew  how  I  love  you.  .  . 
Say  but  one  word  and  I  will  leave  home — father  and  mother 
and  all — and  follow  you  like  a  beggar  girl  from  place  to 
place." 

"And  never  care  what  people  said?" 

"Care?  Why^  should  I  care  for  them?  What  do  they 
know  of  love?" 

"Little  Hawthorn  ,  .  ."  Olof  bent  her  head  back  and 
looked  straight  into  her  eyes.  "Was  that  a  nice  thing  to 
say,  now?" 

The  girl  bowed  her  head.  "No — but  I  wanted  to  do  some- 
thing, to  make  some  sacrifice  for  your  sake," 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  her  eyes  brightened 
once  more.     "Olof,  now  I  know!     I'll  cut  off  one  of  the 


122    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

prettiest  locks  of  my  hair  and  you  shall  keep  it  for  remem- 
brance— that's  what  people  do,  isn't  it?  And  you  must  keep 
it  always — and  think  of  me  sometimes,  even  when  you  love 
someone  else." 

"Oh,  my  love!  I  don't  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry  when 
you  say  such  things.  But  it  is  only  now,  in  the  gloom  of  the 
spring  night.     By  daylight  you  will  think  differently." 

"No,  never!     Not  even  in  the  gravel" 

"And  then — it's  so  childish.  Must  you  have  a  keepsake 
from  me  too,  to  help  you  to  remember?" 

"No,  of  course  not." 

"Then  why  should  I  need  one?" 

"No,  no — it's  childish  of  me,  of  course.  Forgive  me, 
Olof — and  don't  be  sorry  any  more.  I  ask  nothing  but  to 
go  on  loving  you." 

"And  I  you — without  thought  or  question." 

"Yes.  And  I  shall  remember  all  my  life  how  happy  you 
have  made  me ;  I  shall  keep  the  memory  of  it  all  as  a  secret 
treasure  till  I  die,  and  bless  you.  .  .  ." 

She  rose  up  suddenly  on  her  elbow. 

"Olof — tell  me  something.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  anyone 
dying  of  happiness?" 

"No — I  have  never  heard  of  it.     Why?" 

"But  when  they  are  really,  really  happy  .  .  .?" 

"I  don't  think  anyone  could,  even  then." 

"But  they  can  die  of  sorrow  sometimes,  I've  heard.  And 
then  if  one  really  wants  to  .  .  ." 

"Hawthorn!"  He  clasped  her  in  a  wild  embrace.  "There 
is  no  one  like  you  in  all  the  world.  If  that  were  possible,  I 
would  ask  nothing  else." 


HAWTHORN  123 

"Would  you — would  you  really  care  to  .  .  .  with  me?" 
"Yes,  yes  ...  to  swoon  in  the  scent  of  you  and  die  .  .  . 
to  feel  the  strands  of  your  hair  twined  round  my  throat,  and 
die.  .  .  .      Well    for    me    if    I    could,    perhaps — and    for 
others.  .  .  ." 


SISTER  MAYA 

SADNESS  pervaded  his  soul,  and  he  spoke  to  the 
evening  gloom  that  stole  in  through  the  window  and 
hovered  about  his  pale  face  like  a  watcher. 

"I  too  should  have  had  a  sister — sister  Maya,"  he  said 
dreamily. 

"You  had  one — and  the  best  that  one  could  wish  for," 
said  the  evening  gloom. 

"I  don't  remember — I  was  too  young  to  know.  .  .  .  But 
mother  always  spoke  so  nicely  of  her  .  .  .  the  time  I  was  ill, 
for  instance." 

"So  your  mother  spoke  of  that.     Yes,  yes,  she  would.  .  .  ." 

"It  was  when  I  was  a  child.  I  was  very  ill — on  the  point 
of  death,  she  said.  And  mother  and  all  the  others  were 
crying,  and  comforting  themselves  with  the  thought  that  little 
Olof  would  be  an  angel  soon,  and  wear  a  crown.  And  sister 
Maya  said  then  I  should  sit  by  her  bedside  with  wings  out- 
spread, warding  off  evil  dreams." 

"Well  if  it  had  been  so,"  said  the  evening  gloom. 

"But  the  girl,  my  sister,  burst  into  tears,  and  cried  that  I 
should  not  be  an  angel,  but  a  big  man,  bigger  than  father — 
ever  so  big  and  strong.  And  she  threw  her  arms  round  my 
neck  and  said  no  one  should  ever  come  and  take  away  Olof 
—no!"  ' 

"Ay,"  nodded  the  gloom,  "so  it  was — ^yes." 

"And  my  sister  tried  her  ovm  way  to  make  me  well  again 

124 


SISTER  MAYA  125 

— fondling  me  and  blinking  her  eyes  and  stroking  me  under 
the  chin.  And  I  began  laughing,  for  all  that  I  was  ill.  And 
she  was  all  overjoyed  at  that,  and  more  certain  than  ever  that 
I  was  to  get  well  again  and  grow  a  big  strong  man.  And  I 
laughed  again,  and  life  began  laughing  too — and  after  that, 
I  gradually  got  well." 

"Ay,  'twas  so.  And  your  sister,  she  looked  after  you  and 
nursed  you  all  by  herself — no  one  else  was  allowed  to  touch 
you;  yes,  that  was  your  sister  Maya!" 

"Then  Maya  was  taken  ill  herself.  And  weak  as  she  was, 
she  would  have  me  near  her  all  the  time,  and  made  me  sit  by 
her  bedside.  And  I  only  laughed  at  it  all — I  did  not  under- 
stand that  my  only  sister  was  at  death's  door.  Ay,  sometimes 
I  pinched  her  thin  cheek,  or  pulled  her  hair,  or  flicked  her  ear 
in  play.  .  .  ." 

"So  you  have  done  since  with  many  other  girls — ay,  and 
laughed  at  them." 

"And  then  the  others  came  and  wanted  to  take  me  away, 
out  of  her  sight,  because  I  was  so  cruel." 

"Ay,  just  so.  If  only  someone  had  done  the  same  thing 
afterwards,  with  the  rest.  .  .  ." 

"But  Maya  held  my  hand  and  would  not  let  them.  And 
even  when  she  was  dying  I  had  to  stay  there,  and  ^vith  her 
last  words  she  hoped  that  Olof  would  grow  up  and  be  a  fine 
strong  fellow,  and  a  good  man." 

He  relapsed  into  thought. 

"And  now  .  .  .  here  you  are,  a  fine  strong  fellow,  and 
.  .  ."     The  voice  seemed  urging  him  to  go  on. 

"Why  did  my  sister  die?     Oh,  if  only  she  were  alive  now!" 

"Who  can  say — perhaps  it  is  better  for  her  as  it  is." 

"If  she  were  alive  now,  she  would  be  in  her  best  years. 


126   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

And  she  could  live  with  me,  we  two  together,  and  never  caring 
about  anyone  else.  Keep  house  together — and  she  should 
be  my  friend  and  sister — and  all  else!  I  know  just  what 
she  would  look  like.  Tall  and  slender,  with  fair  hair,  light 
as  the  flax  at  home,  and  all  curling  down  over  her  shoulders. 
And  she  would  carry  her  head  high — not  vain  and  proud, 
but  noble  and  stately.  And  her  eyes  all  fire  and  mischief. 
Deep  eyes,  with  a  reflection  of  strange  worlds,  and  none  could 
face  them  with  so  much  as  a  thought  of  deceit.  Like  mother's 
eyes — only  with  all,  all  the  fire  of  youth — almost  Hke 
Kylli  .  .  ." 

"So  ho!"  laughed  the  gloom.  "So  that's  what  your  sister's 
to  be  like.  .  .  .     Well,  go  on!" 

"And  her  nature,  too,  would  be  strange.  Lidependent, 
choosing  her  own  way — such  a  nature  as  old  folks  say  is  no 
good  thing  for  a  lad,  far  less  for  a  girl.  But  for  her  .  .  . 
And  in  winter-time  she  would  come  racing  home  on  ski — 
rushing  into  the  place  and  making  the  doors  shake.  Then 
she  would  jump  on  my  lap,  put  her  cold  hands  on  my 
shoulders,  and  look  mischievously:  'Why,  what's  this, 
brother?  As  gloomy  as  a  monk  again,  I  declare!'  And  I 
should  feel  happier  then,  but  still  a  little  earnest,  and  say, 
'Maya,  Maya,  what  a  child  you  are!  As  thoughtless  as  a 
boy.  And  such  a  noise  you  make  about  the  place.'  'Oh, 
but  you're  always  in  the  dumps — sitting  here  moping  like  a 
grey  owl.  You  ought  to  go  out  and  race  through  the  snow, 
till  it  whirls  up  about  your  ears  .  .  .  that's  tlie  thing  to 
freshen  you  up.  .  .  .'  And  then  she  presses  cold  hands 
against  my  cheek,  till  I  shiver,  and  looks  teasingly.  And 
then  all  my  dull  humour's  gone,  and  I  can't  help  laughing  at 
her,  and  calling  her  a  little  impudent  thing.  .  .  ." 


SISTER  MAYA  127 

Olof  stopped,  and  smiled — as  if  to  fix  the  picture  of  this 
bright  young  creature  indelibly  in  his  mind. 

The  voice  of  the  gloom  spoke  again:  "So  she  is  to  live 
just  for  your  pleasure — like  all  the  others?" 

The  smile  died  from  the  young  man's  face. 

"Go  on — your  sister  is  sitting  on  your  lap,  looking  mis- 
chievously into  your  eyes  .  .  .?" 

"No,  no — not  like  that — no.  She  looks  earnestly,  with 
eyes  that  Ho  deceit  can  face,  and  says,  'Olof,  what's  this  they 
are  saying  about  you  .  .  .  ?' 

"'Saying — about  me  .  .  .?' 

"And  she  looks  at  me  still.  'Hard  things  they  say, 
brother — that  you  play  with  women's  hearts.  ...  Is  it 
true?' 

"And  I  cannot  meet  her  eyes,  and  bow  my  head. 

"  'Olof — remember  that  /  too  am  a  woman.' 

"And  that  cuts  me  to  the  heart.  'Sister,  sister,  if  you 
knew  it  all;  if  you  knew  how  I  have  suffered  myself.  I 
never  meant  to  play  with  them — only  to  be  with  them — as  I 
am  with  you.' 

"  'As  you  are  with  me?'  She  looks  at  me  wonderingly. 
'But  you  know — you  must  know — that  you  cannot  be  as  a 
brother  to  them.' 

"  'Yes,  I  can — sometimes.' 

"  'But  never  quite.  And  still  less  can  they  be  sisters  to 
you.     Surely  you  know  enough  to  understand  that.' 

"'No!' 

"  'But  you  should  know.  Oh,  think!  With  some  men, 
perhaps,  they  might  be  as  sister  and  brother — but  not  with 
you.  You,  with  your  dark  eyes — I  have  always  feared 
them.     They  beckon  and  call  ...  to  evil  and  disaster.' 


128   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"'Sister — what  must  you  think  of  me!'  And  I  hide  my 
head  in  her  lap,  as  I  used  to  do  in  mother's. 

"  'I  am  only  sorry — bitterly  sorry  for  you.  And  I  can't 
help  being  fond  of  you,  for  I  know  your  heart  is  good  and 
pure — but  you  are  weak;  very,  very  weak.'  And  she  strokes 
my  forehead,  as  mother  used  to  do. 

"  'Yes,  I  am  weak,  I  know  it.     But  I  promise  you  .  .  .' 

"  'Don't  promise!'  she  says  almost  sternly,  and  lifts  a  finger 
warningly.  'How  many  times  have  you  promised,  with  tears 
in  your  eyes,  and  done  the  same  again?  Don't  promise — 
but  try  to  be  stronger.' 

"  'I  will  try,  sister — dear,  dear  sister.'  And  I  take  her 
hands  and  kiss  them  gratefully  again  and  again.  .  .  ." 

"Ho!  so  that's  the  way  you  talk  together,  is  it?"  said  the 
gloom.  "Well,  I'm  not  sure  it  might  not  be  a  good  thing 
if  your  sister  were  alive.  Then,  perhaps,  if  she  talked  like 
that  to  you  occasionally,  you  might  be  a  different  man  al- 
together." 

The  young  man  sat  for  a  while  in  thought. 

"Then  suddenly  she  jumps  up  and  lights  the  lamp — it  is 
getting  dark.  And  she  comes  and  puts  her  hands  on  my 
shoulders  and  says,  'Let  me  help  you  checking  those  accounts 
— you  know  I  can.' 

"And  she  sits  down  at  the  table,  and  I  watch  her  little 
hand  gliding  over  the  paper.  And  I  set  to  work  at  the 
books,  and  so  we  work  for  a  long  time. 

"Then  suddenly  she  looks  up,  and  begins  talking  again. 
'Why,  what  a  great  man  you're  getting,  Olof — keeping  the 
books  in  an  office  of  your  oun — and  with  a  secretary  into  the 
bargain.     There's  never  a  lumberman  risen  so  far  at  your 


SISTER  MAYA  129 

age,  and  never  a  foreman  that  looks  so  fine,  with  office  and 
clerk  and  all.' 

"And  I  laugh  at  that.  'And  never  one  with  such  a  sister 
to  help — that  I'm  sure.' 

"Then  she  turns  serious  again,  and  looks  at  me  strangely. 
I  can't  make  out  what  she  means. 

"  'Tell  me,'  she  says  at  last,  'how  long  are  you  going  to 
go  on  with  this  wandering  life?     It's  three  years  now.' 

"'Is  it  so  long  as  that?'  I  ask  in  surprise.  ''Twill  be 
longer  yet,  I  doubt.' 

"  'If  I  were  you,  I  would  make  an  end  of  it  at  once. 
Let  us  both  go  home  and  take  over  the  farm  there — mother 
and  father  have  worked  so  hard  there  all  their  lives — it's 
time  they  were  allowed  to  rest.' 

"I  look  at  her  without  speaking,  and  she  understands. 
'Father?  Never  fear — he's  forgotten  his  anger  long  ago. 
And  mother  and  he  are  both  waiting  for  you  to  come  home — 
for  brother  Heikki  is  too  young  to  take  over  the  place.  .  .  .' 

"  'Do  you  really  think  so?' 

"  'Think  ?  I  know !  And  there's  any  amount  of  work  all 
waiting  for  you.  New  ground  to  be  sown,  and  a  new  barn 
to  build,  and  we  ought  to  have  three  times  the  stock  we  have 
now.  And  there's  all  Isosuo  marsh — you've  that  to  drain 
and  cultivate.     When  are  you  going  to  begin?' 

"  'Drain  the  marsh?     How  could  you  think  of  that?' 

"'Why  shouldn't  I?  I'm  your  sister.  It  will  be  a  big 
piece  of  work — father  himself  never  ventured  to  try  it — but 
you're  a  bigger  man  than  your  father — a  big,  strong  man  . . .' 

"  'Sister!  Now  I  simply  must  give  you  a  kiss.  There's 
no  one  like  you  in  all  the  world.' 

"And  we  go  home  the  very  next  week.     And  all  turns  out 


130   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

just  as  you  said — more  live  stock,  new  ground  sown,  clover 
where  there  was  but  marsh  before,  and  Koskela  is  grown  to 
a  splendid  place,  kno\\Ti  far  and  wide.  And  we  are  so 
happy — with  you  to  keep  house  and  me  to  work  the  land. 
And  the  years  go  by  and  we  grow  old,  but  our  children  .  .  . 
".  .  .  Oh,  misery!  What  am  I  dreaming  of  .  .  .?" 
"That  was  the  best  of  your  dreams  so  far,"  said  the  gloom, 
with  a  full  glance  of  its  coal-black  eyes.  "May  it  soon 
come  true !  But  light  your  lamp  now — it  is  dark  as  night  in 
here  now." 


CLEMATIS 

IF  I  were  a  poet,  I  would  sing — a  strange,  ^vild  song. 
"And  if  I  could  string  the  quivering  kantele,  I 
would  play  on  it  a  melody  to  my  song. 

"I  would  sing  of  you,  and  of  love.  Of  clematis  with  the 
snow-white  flowers.  For  you  are  as  the  clematis,  my  love, 
sweet  and  beautiful  as  its  blossoms,  dear  as  its  growth  about 
the  windows  of  a  home — and  deep,  endlessly  deep,  as  life 
itself." 

"But  that  is  just  what  you  are  doing,  Olof — for  all  you 
say  is  like  a  poem  and  a  song,"  answered  the  girl.  "Sing 
for  me  again — and  let  me  just  sit  here  at  your  feet  and  listen." 

"Ah,  if  only  you  could  sit  there  always,  as  now.  Clematis 
— how  strange  that  I  should  meet  you — when  I  never  thought 
to  meet  with  any  flower  again — saw  only  the  yellow  faded 
leaves  of  autumn  everywhere  around." 

"Autumn  .  .  .  faded  leaves  .  .  ."  The  girl  looked  at 
him,  timidly  questioning.  "Olof,  don't  be  angry  with  me. 
But  .  .  .  Have  you  loved  others  before?  They  say  so 
many  things  about  you." 

The  young  man  was  silent  a  moment. 

"Ay,  there  are  many  things  to  say,  perhaps,"  he  murmured 
sadly.  "But  you.  Clematis — could  you  care  for  me;  could 
you  not  love  me  altogether,  if  you  knew  I  had  loved  another 
before?" 

131 


132   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"No,  no — 'twas  not  meant  so,"  said  the  girl  hastily,  touch- 
ing his  knee  with  a  slight  caress.  "I  was  not  thinking  of 
myself  .  .  ." 

"But  of  .  .  .?" 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence. 

"Yes — I  know  what  you  mean.  I  can  read  it  in  your 
eyes."     He  laid  one  hand  tenderly  on  the  girl's  head. 

"Life  is  so  strange.  And  human  beings  strangest  of  all. 
I  have  loved — but  now  I  feel  as  one  that  had  only  dreamed 
strange  fancies." 

"But  have  you  loved  them  really — in  earnest?  I  mean, 
did  you  give  them  all  you  had  to  give — and  can  anyone  give 
that  more  than  once  in  life?"  The  girl  spoke  softly,  but 
with  such  deep  feeling  that  the  young  man  found  no  words 
to  answer,  and  sat  silently  staring  before  him. 

"Who  can  tell,"  he  said,  after  a  while.  "I  thought  I 
had  given  all  I  had  long  since,  and  had  all  that  could  ever 
be  given  me.  I  felt  myself  poor  as  the  poorest  beggar.  Then 
you  came,  unlike  all  the  others,  a  wealth  of  hidden  treasure 
in  yourself — none  had  ever  given  me  what  you  gave.  And 
now — I  feel  myself  rich,  young  and  unspoiled,  as  if  I  were 
crossing  the  threshold  of  life  for  the  first  time." 

"Rich — ay,  you  are  rich — as  a  prince.  And  I  am  your 
poorest  little  slave,  sitting  at  your  feet.  But  how  can  anyone 
ever  be  so  rich — how  can  it  be?     I  can  never  understand." 

"Do  you  know  w'hat  I  think?  I  think  that  human  beings 
are  endlessly  rich  and  deep,  like  Nature  itself,  that  is  always 
young,  and  only  changes  from  one  season  to  another.  All 
that  has  happened  to  me  before  seems  now  only  the  rising  of 
sap  in  spring.  Now  summer  comes  for  the  first  time — all 
calm  and  warmth  and  happiness.     I  have  been  like  a  fairy 


CLEMATIS  133 

palace,  with  a  splendid  hall  to  which  none  could  find  the 
key.  But  you  had  it  all  the  time — the  others  could  enter 
this  little  room  or  that,  but  only  you  had  the  key  to  the  best 
of  all." 

"Is  it  really  true,  Olof?  Oh,  I  shall  remember  those 
words  for  ever!" 

"It  is  true — you  were  the  first  that  taught  me  how  deep 
and  mysterious,  how  wonderful,  the  love  of  a  man  and  a 
woman  can  be.  That  it  is  not  just  a  chance  meeting,  and 
after  that  all  kisses  and  embraces  and  overflow  of  feeling. 
But  a  quiet,  calm  happiness  in  the  blood,  like  the  sap  in  the 
trees,  invisible,  yet  bearing  all  life  in  itself;  speechless,  yet 
saying  everj'thing  without  a  single  touch  of  our  lips." 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl  earnestly.  "But  did  you  not  know 
that  before?     I  have  always  felt  it  so." 

"No — I  did  not  realise  that  it  was  so  intimate  a  part  of 
our  nature;  that  it  was  the  foundation  of  life  and  happiness 
for  all  on  earth.  Now  at  last  I  understand  that  we  are 
nothing  without  one  another — we  are  as  earth  without  water, 
trees  without  roots  or  mould;  or  as  the  sky  without  sun  and 
moon.  And  I  know  now  much  that  I  did  not  know  before — 
the  secret  of  all  existence,  the  power  that  sustains  us  all." 

"And  you  know  that  it  is  love — the  greatest  of  all!  But 
why  does  no  one  ever  speak  of  it — I  mean,  of  love  itself, 
not  merely  the  name?" 

"I  think  it  must  be  because  it  is  too  deep  and  sacred  a 
thing  to  talk  about;  we  do  not  understand  it  ever  until  we 
have  experienced  it  each  for  himself.  And  those  that  have — 
they  must  be  silent — for  it  is  a  thing  to  live  on,  not  to  talk 
about.     Do  you  know,  I  have  just  remembered  something  I 


134  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

once  saw.  Just  a  scene  in  a  poor  little  hut — ^but  it  explains 
it  all.  .  .  ." 

"Something  you  have  seen  yourself?" 

"Yes.  It  was  many  years  ago.  It  was  a  cold  winter  day, 
and  I  came  to  this  hut  I  was  speaking  of — 'twas  a  miserable 
place  to  look  at.  The  windows  were  covered  with  frost,  and 
an  icy  draught  came  through  cracks  in  the  walls.  Two  chil- 
dren were  sitting  by  the  stove,  warming  their  feet  that  were 
all  red  with  cold;  the  other  two  were  quarrelling  over  the 
last  crust  of  bread." 

"Were  they  so  poor  as  that?"  asked  the  girl,  her  voice 
quivering  with  sympathy. 

"Poor  as  could  be.  And  in  a  heap  of  rags  on  the  bed 
lay  the  mother,  with  a  newborn  child — the  fifth.  The  man 
was  sitting  at  the  table.  He  looked  at  the  children  on  the 
floor,  and  then  at  the  mother  and  her  little  one  in  bed — 
looked  at  them — and  laughed!  And  the  joy  in  his  pale,  thin 
face — it  was  a  wonderful  sight.  .  .  ." 

"And  the  mother?"  asked  the  girl  eagerly.  "Was  she 
happy  too — more  than  he?" 

"Yes,  she  laughed  too  for  joy  at  everything — the  children, 
and  the  rags,  and  the  draughty  hut,  and  all.  And  I  was 
so  astounded  I  didn't  know  where  to  look.  Happy — in  all 
that  misery  and  wretchedness !  Were  they  so  utterly  without 
feeling,  then,  that  they  could  not  cry?  But  now  I  under- 
stand it  all.  I  know  what  made  those  poor  folk  happy  in  it 
all:  they  had  found  that  thing  we  spoke  of — the  great  secret. 
And  it  made  the  hut  a  palace  for  them,  and  the  ragged 
children  as  dear  as  those  of  any  king  and  queen — yes,  they 
were  happy." 


CLEMATIS  135 

The  two  sat  in  silence  for  a  while.  Olof  felt  a  slight 
thrill  pass  through  the  girl's  body  to  his  own. 

"I  see  it  now,"  said  the  girl  at  last.  "A  little  while  ago 
I  could  not  see  what  it  was  that  made  life  so  deep  and 
wonderful.  And  do  you  know,  Olof — I  should  like  to  be 
just  such  a  poor  woman  as  that — frost  on  the  windows  and 
rags  for  a  bed,  but  .  .  .  but  ..."  Bright  tears  shone  in 
her  eyes. 

"But — what?"  he  asked  tenderly,  taking  her  head  in  his 
hands. 

"But  with  the  one  I  loved — to  be  mine — all  mine,  for 
ever!"  she  answered,  looking  straight  into  his  eyes. 

Olof  started.  It  was  as  if  something  had  come  between 
them,  something  restless  and  ill-boding  that  broke  the  soft 
swell  of  the  waves  on  which  they  drifted  happily — something, 
he  knew  not  what,  that  made  its  presence  felt. 

"Or — not  that  perhaps — but  to  have  something  of  his — 
something  he  had  given  me — to  lie  beside  me  in  a  bed  of 
rags  and  smile,"  said  the  girl.  And  laying  her  head  in  his 
lap  she  clung  to  him  as  if  her  body  had  been  one  with  his. 

The  lamp  was  lit,  and  a  little  fire  was  burning  on  the 
hearth.  The  girl  sat  on  the  floor,  as  was  her  way,  holding 
her  lover's  feet  in  her  lap — wrapped  in  her  apron,  as  if  they 
were  her  own. 

"Go  on  working — I  won't  disturb  you,"  she  said,  "only 
sit  here  and  warm  your  feet  and  look  at  you." 

Olof  gave  her  a  quick,  warm  glance,  and  turned  to  his 
work  again. 

"Olof,"  said  the  girl,  after  a  pause,  "what  shall  I  have  to 
hold  in  my  lap  when  you  are  gone?" 


136   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

She  looked  up  at  him  helplessly,  as  if  he  alone  could  aid 
her. 

Olof  made  a  movement  of  impatience,  as  if  he  had  made 
an  error  in  his  reckoning  that  was  hard  to  put  right. 

"Nothing,  I  suppose,"  he  said  at  last,  trying  to  speak 
lightly.     ''You  had  nothing  before,  you  know." 

"Ah,  but  that  was  different.  Now,  I  must  have  something." 

There  was  a  strange  ring  in  her  voice — the  young  man  laid 
down  his  pen  and  sat  staring  into  the  fire.  It  was  like 
talking  to  a  child — a  queer  child,  full  of  feeling,  knowing 
and  imagining  more  than  its  elders  often  did.  But  still  and 
for  ever  a  child,  asking  simple  questions  now  that  were  hard 
to  answer  without  hurt. 

The  girl  watched  him  anxiously. 

"Don't  be  angry,  Olof,"  she  said  entreatingly.  "It's  very 
silly  of  me,  I  know.  Go  on  with  your  work,  and  don't 
bother  about  me.     Do — or  I  shall  be  so  sorry." 

"You  are  so  quick  to  feel  things,"  said  he,  pressing  her 
hand.  "I'll  talk  to  you  about  it  all  another  time — do  you 
understand?" 

"Yes — another  time.     Don't  think  any  more  about  it  now." 

But  the  words  echoed  insistently  in  his  ears,  with  a  hollow 
ring — as  if  he  had  spoken  carelessly,  to  be  rid  of  a  child's 
questioning  for  the  time.  He  took  up  his  pen  again,  but 
could  not  work,  only  sat  drawing  squares  and  interrogations 
on  the  margin  of  the  paper. 

The  girl  moved  closer,  laid  her  cheek  against  his  knee,  and 
closed  her  eyes.  But  her  mind  was  working  still,  and  the 
light  of  a  sudden  impulse  shone  in  her  eyes  when  she  looked 
up  at  him. 

"Olof,"  she  asked  eagerly,  "are  you  very  busy?" 


CLEMATIS  137 

"No — no.  What  then?"  From  the  tone  of  her  voice  he 
knew  she  had  something  important  to  say. 

"There  was  just  an  old  story  that  came  into  my  mind — 
may  I  tell  it  to  you,  now?" 

"Yes,  yes,  do,"  said  Olof,  with  a  sense  of  relief.  "You 
are  the  only  girl  I  have  ever  met  who  could  tell  fairy  tales — 
and  make  them  up  yourself  too." 

"This  is  not  one  I  made  up  myself.  I  heard  it  long  ago," 
she  answered. 

"Well,  and  how  does  it  begin?"  said  Olof  briskly,  taking 
her  hands.     "  'Once  upon  a  time  .  .  ,'?" 

"Yes,  those  are  the  very  words.  Once  upon  a  time  there 
was  a  boy — and  a  girl.  And  they  loved  each  other —  especial- 
ly the  girl.  No  words  could  ever  tell  how  she  loved  him." 
She  looked  at  Olof  as  if  to  see  the  effect  of  what  she  had  said. 

"That  begins  well.  Go  on,"  said  Olof.  But  a  thought 
was  slowly  taking  form  in  his  mind. 

"And  they  sat  in  the  woods,  under  the  tall  birches,  and 
talked  of  how  happy  they  were.  But  the  girl  could  not 
have  the  boy  for  her  own — they  had  to  say  good-bye.  He 
had  to  go  away,  and  she  knew  she  would  never  see  him 
again." 

Olof  looked  thoughtful — the  fancy  was  taking  root.  "Go 
on — what  happened  then?" 

"Then,  just  as  he  was  going  away,  the  girl  said  to  him, 
'Set  a  mark  on  me  somehow,  so  that  I  shall  always  feel  I 
belong  to  you,  and  no  one  can  tear  you  from  my  heart.' 

"The  boy  thought  for  a  moment.  'Where  shall  I  set  the 
mark?'  he  asked. 

"  'Here,  above  my  heart,'  said  the  girl. 

"And  she  bared  her  breast,  and  the  boy  took  out  his  knife 


138   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

and  with  its  sharp  point  scratched  a  little  heart  on  her 
breast." 

The  girl  shivered  a  little. 

"And  then  he  coloured  it  where  he  had  cut,  like  sailors  do 
with  anchors  on  their  arms.  And  when  he  had  finished,  he 
kissed  it.     And  they  said  good-bye,  and  he  went  away." 

Olof  was  touched — now  he  understood.  .  .  . 

"And  what  then?"  he  asked  softly.  "What  happened 
after,  to  the  girl  with  a  mark  above  her  heart,  and  to  him 
that  made  it?" 

"The  boy  .  .  ."  She  stopped,  at  a  loss,  and  then  went 
on:  "There's  no  more  about  him  in  the  story.  He  went 
away.     Only  about  the  girl.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  said  Olof.  "He  went  away.  And 
the  girl?" 

"The  girl — she  looked  at  the  mark  every  night  when  she 
undressed,  and  every  morning  when  she  dressed  herself,  for 
she  felt  as  if  he  were  there  all  the  time,  because  of  the  mark. 
But  then  the  time  came  when  her  parents  said  she  must 
marr)'.  And  she  didn't  want  to,  but  she  had  to  all  the  same. 
But  she  did  not  love  her  husband,  and  was  always  looking 
secretly  at  the  mark  her  lover  had  made,  as  if  she  were 
talking  with  him  that  way,  and  it  made  her  happy." 

"And  the  husband,"  asked  Olof  eagerly,  "did  he  find  out?" 

"No.  Men  don't  notice  things  like  that  as  a  rule.  But 
then  the  girl  bore  a  child — she  was  still  a  girl,  for  she  had 
remained  true  to  her  lover.  And  the  child  had  the  very 
same  mark  in  the  same  place. 

"The  husband  saw  the  mark.  'What's  this?'  he  asked  in 
a  stern  voice. 

"  '  'Tis  a  birth-mark,'  said  the  girl. 


CLEMATIS  139 

"  'Do  not  lie  to  me!'  cried  the  man.  'It  is  more  than  that. 
Let  me  see  your  breast.' 

"Now  the  girl  did  not  want  to  do  this,  for  she  felt  that 
the  mark  was  nothing  to  do  with  him.  But  her  husband's 
face  grew  dark  with  anger,  and  he  tore  away  her  clothes,  and 
bared  her  breast.  And  now  she  would  not  try  to  hide  the 
mark  at  all,  but  stood  up  straight  and  let  him  see.  And 
before  he  could  even  ask,  she  told  him  what  it  was.  'That 
is  the  mark  my  lover  made  when  I  was  a  girl,'  she  said. 
'For  a  sign  that  I  should  belong  to  him  for  ever — and  I  have.' 
And  at  that  the  husband's  eyes  flashed,  and  without  a  word 
he  drew  his  knife  and  struck  it  through  the  mark  deep  into 
her  breast.  .  .  ." 

She  would  have  said  more,  but  her  voice  failed — she  could 
feel  Olof's  knees  trembling  against  her  breast. 

"You  are  good  at  telling  stories,"  said  he  in  a  stifled  voice. 
"But  the  end  was  too  horrible." 

"It  was  not  horrible  at  all,"  she  replied.  "It  was  just 
as  lovely  as  could  be.  The  girl  herself  could  have  wished 
for  nothing  better.  She  died  with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  as 
only  those  who  are  happy  ever  die. 

"But  it  is  not  all  ended  yet — there  is  more  to  come." 

"More?"  cried  Olof  in  surprise,  at  a  loss  to  understand  how 
she  would  go  on. 

"Yes,"  she  continued.  "For  when  she  was  dead,  the  girl 
came  to  the  gate  of  heaven.  And  there  stood  St.  Peter  at  the 
gate,  as  he  always  does. 

"  'You  cannot  enter  in,'  said  St.  Peter,  'for  you  bear  on 
your  breast  the  mark  of  sinful  lust.'  But  God  heard  it  from 
His  throne,  and  cried,  'Open  and  let  her  in!'     And  God 


140   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

looked  at  the  girl's  breast,  and  she  did  not  flinch.  'You 
should  know  better,'  He  said  to  St.  Peter  reproachfully. 
'Here  is  one  that  was  faithful  to  her  first  love.  .  .  .  Enter 
in,  My  child.'  " 

Both  were  silent.  A  little  blue  flame  rose  from  the  embers 
on  the  hearth. 

"Thanks,  Clematis,"  whispered  Olof,  and  kissed  her  hands 
that  lay  hot  in  his  own.  "I  know  what  you  meant.  And 
how  prettily  you  said  it!" 

"Are  you  sure  you  knew  what  I  meant?"  she  asked.  "I 
hadn't  finished,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

"What— not  finished  yet?" 

"No!" 

She  drew  her  hands  away,  and  as  if  summing  up  all  she 
had  said  before,  she  clasped  his  knees  and  looked  imploringly 
into  his  eyes. 

"Give  me  that  mark!" 

Olof  shivered — waves  of  heat  and  cold  seemed  passing 
through  his  body. 

"No,  no — my  love!  You  must  not  ask  that  of  me — it  is 
more  than  I  can  do,"  he  went  on  bitterly. 

"You  CEUi,  if  you  only  will.     Love  can  do  all  things." 

"But  no\V — after  what  you  have  said  .  .  ." 

"But  you  said  yourself  it  was  so  pretty." 

"Yes — there  is  a  lovely  thought  in  it — but  the  end  was  too 
horrible — you  know  what  I  mean." 

"That  was  the  loveliest  of  all.  Oh,  won't  you  do  what  I 
ask?"  Her  lips  trembled,  and  she  looked  at  him  entreatingly. 

Olof  sighed  deeply;  drops  of  sweat  stood  out  on  his  fore- 
head. "How  can  I  refuse  you  anjthing?  But — but  I 
could  never  forget  it  if  I  did,  and  .  .  ." 


CLEMATIS  141 

"Oh  ...  I  almost  thought  that  was,  how  it  would  be. 
You  cannot  understand — for  you  are  not  me.  But  something 
I  must  havel"  she  went  on  passionately.  "I  cannot  live 
^\athout.  Look!"  She  drew  from  her  breast  a  little  case  of 
blue  silk,  hung  by  a  red  cord  round  her  neck.  "See — it  just 
reaches  to  there!" 

"It's  very  pretty,"  said  Olof  in  relief,  taking  the  case  in 
his  hand.     "And  you  want  something  to  put  in  it?" 

"Yes." 

"A  lock  of  hair  or  something?  Are  you  as  childish  as  all 
that?" 

"No — not  as  childish  as  all  that." 

"A  flower,  then — or  what?" 

"No,  nothing  like  that." 

"You  want  me  to  write  something,  then?" 

"No,  no.     I  want  yourself — your  very  self!" 

Olof  looked  at  her  blankly — he  could  not  guess  what  was 
in  her  mind.  He  felt  himself  more  and  more  in  the  power  of 
something  he  had  been  striving  to  escape. 

"Oh,  don't  you  understand?     Your  portrait." 

"But — but  I  have  only  one.  And — I  have  never  given 
anyone  my  portrait." 

"No,"  said  the  girl  confidently.  "You  have  kept  it  for 
me. 

Olof  felt  himself  shamed.  What  a  poor  creature  he  was 
gro\\Ti!  Why  could  he  not  rise  up  and  take  this  strange 
rare  child  in  his  arms,  and  swear  by  all  he  revered  that  she 
had  touched  his  inmost  heart,  that  he  was  hers  alone,  for 
ever? 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  cried  earnestly,  "Yes !  It  was 
taken  for  you,  and  for  no  other!" 


142  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

But  the  words  ended  in  a  sob — it  was  as  if  his  blood  were 
turned  to  sand.  With  trembling  fingers  he  took  out  the 
portrait,  and  sank  down  as  if  paralysed  into  his  seat. 

The  girl  watched  him  with  a  starry  gleam  of  ecstasy  in 
her  eyes. 

But  he  could  not  meet  her  glance — he  bent  his  head,  think- 
ing bitterly  to  himself,  "What  have  I  come  to?  Why  do  I 
cheat  her  and  myself,  why  do  I  give  these  beggar's  crumbs 
to  one  that  should  have  all?" 

The  girl  sat  still  with  the  same  light  of  wonder  in  her  eyes, 
looking  now  at  the  portrait,  now  at  Olof  himself. 

"Yes,  it  is  really  you,"  she  said  at  last,  and  touching  the 
picture  with  her  lips,  she  laid  it  in  the  case,  and  slipped  it 
into  her  bosom. 

"Now  I  have  nothing  more  to  ask,"  she  said.  "I  shall 
thank  you  all  my  life  for  this.  When  you  are  gone,  you 
will  be  with  me  still.  I  can  talk  to  you  at  night  before  I 
sleep,  and  in  the  morning  you  will  be  the  first  thing  I  see. 
I  can  whisper  to  you  just  as  I  used  to  do.  And  when  I  am 
dead,  you  shall  be  buried  with  me." 

Olof  was  overwhelmed  with  emotion — it  was  as  if  some- 
thing within  him  had  been  rent  asunder.  He  looked  at  the 
girl's  face — how  pure  and  holy  it  was!  Why  could  not  he 
himself  be  as  she  was?  What  was  it  that  had  happened  to 
him? 

He  felt  an  impulse  to  throw  himself  on  the  floor  at  her 
feet  and  tell  her  all — and  then  rise  up  young  and  pure  and 
whole  again,  able  to  feel  as  others  did.  But  he  could  not; 
an  icy  voice  within  him  told  that  the  days  of  his  spring-time 
were  gone  for  ever.     And  as  he  felt  her  arms  about  him  once 


CLEMATIS  143 

more,  he  could  only  bend  do\Mi  humbly  and  touch  her  hair 
with  his  lips  in  silence,  as  if  begging  her  to  understand. 

Warm  drops  were  falling  on  his  knees,  warm  drops  fell  on 
her  hair.  Welling  from  deep  sources — but  unhke,  and  flow- 
ing different  ways. 


DARK  FURROWS 

SUNDAY  morning — a  calm  and  peaceful  time. 
Olof  was  up,  and  sat  combing  his  hair  before  the 
glass. 

"Those  wrinkles  there  on  the  temples  are  getting  deeper," 
he  thought.     "Well,  after  all,  I  suppose  it  looks  more  manly." 

He  laid  down  the  comb,  turned  his  head  slightly,  and 
looked  in  the  glass  again. 

"Paler,  too,  perhaps,"  he  thought  again.  "Well,  I'm  no 
longer  a  boy.  ..." 

He  moved  as  if  to  rise. 

"Look  once  more — a  little  closer,"  urged  the  glass. 

Olof  brushed  his  moustache  and  smiled. 

"Can't  you  see  an)thing?"  the  glass  went  on,  with  some- 
thing like  a  sneer.     "Under  the  eyes,  for  instance?" 

And  suddenly  he  saw.  The  face  that  stared  at  him  from 
the  glass  was  pale,  and  marked  by  the  lines  and  wTinkles  of 
those  past  years.  And  under  the  eyes  were  two  dark  grey 
furrows,  like  heavy  flourishes  to  underline  a  word. 

"Is  it  possible?"  he  cried,  with  a  shudder. 

"Is  it  any  wonder?"  said  the  glass  coldly. 

The  face  in  the  glass  was  staring  at  him  yet,  with  the  dark 
furrows  under  the  eyes. 

"But  what — how  did  they  come  there?"  asked  Olof  in 

dismay. 

144 


DARK  FURROWS  145 

"Need  you  ask?"  said  the  glass,  "Well,  you  have  got 
your  'mark,'  anyhow — though  it  was  not  one  you  asked  for." 

The  face  in  the  mirror  stared  at  him;  the  dark  furrows 
were  there  still.  He  would  have  turned  his  head  away,  or 
closed  his  eyes,  but  could  not.  He  felt  as  if  some  great 
strong  man  were  behind  him  with  a  whip,  bidding  him  sternly 
"Look!" 

And  he  looked. 

"Look  closer — closer  yet!"  commanded  his  tormentor.  "A 
few  deep  lines — and  what  more?" 

Olof  looked  again.  The  plainer  furrows  tailed  off  into  a 
host  of  smaller  lines  and  tiny  folds,  this  way  and  that,  there 
seemed  no  end  to  them.     And  again  he  shuddered. 

"Count  them!"  cried  the  voice  behind  him. 

"Impossible — they — they  are  so  small!" 

"Small  they  may  be — but  how  many  are  there?" 

Olof  bent  forward  and  tried  to  count. 

"WeU?" 

No  answer. 

"How  many  are  there?"  thundered  the  voice — and  Olof 
saw  the  whip  raised  above  his  head. 

"Nine  or  ten,  perhaps,"  he  answered. 

"More!  And  what  do  they  mean?  Can  you  tell  me 
that?" 

"No." 

"No?  Then  let  me  tell  you,  that  you  may  know  hence- 
forward.    The  first  .  .  .?" 

"I— I  don't  know." 

"You  know  well  enough.     Bright  eyes — that  is  the  first." 


146   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

He  flinched  involuntarily  as  under  the  la^h.  And  now 
the  strokes  followed  sharply  one  on  another. 

"A  fine  figure  and  curling  hair  .  .  .  tears  and  empty 
promises  ...  a  thirst  for  beauty  .  .  .  false  brotherhood 
.  .  .  selfishness  and  the  desire  for  conquest  .  .  .  dying  voices 
of  childhood  .  .  .  dreams  and  self-deceit  .  .  ." 

"Enough!" 

"Not  yet.  There  are  little  extras  that  you  have  not  called 
to  mind." 

"Leave  me  in  peace!"  cried  Olof  almost  threateningly, 

"You  could  not  leave  yourself  in  peace.  Look  again — 
what  more — what  more?" 

"Go!"  Olof  sprang  up  with  a  cry  like  that  of  a  wounded 
beast,  took  the  mirror  and  flung  it  against  the  stove,  the 
pieces  scattering  with  a  crash  about  the  floor.  His  blood 
boiled,  his  eyes  burned  \vith  a  dark,  boding  gleam. 

"And  what  then?"  he  cried  defiantly.  "My  mark?  Why, 
then,  let  it  be.     I'll  go  my  own  way,  mark  or  no  mark." 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  hurried  out. 


TO  THE  DREGS 

AND  now — I'll  drink  it  to  the  dregs! 
"Why  not?     I've  tasted  the  rarest  wine  in  cups 
of  purest  crystal — why  not  swallow  the  lees  of  a 
baser  drink  from  a  tavern  stoup?     'Tis  the  last  that  drowns 
regret.     Others   have  done  so — why  not   I? 

''Once  we  have  tasted,  we  must  drink — we  must  dip  down 
into  the  murky  depths  of  life  if  we  are  to  know  it  to  the 
full — ay,  drink  with  a  laugh,  and  go  on  our  way  with  lifted 
head! 

"Drink  to  the  dregs — and  laugh  at  life!  Life  does  not 
waste  tears  over  us!" 

Olof  strode  briskly  out  toward  a  certain  quarter  of  the 
town,  a  complex  of  narrow  streets  and  little  houses  with 
stuffy  rooms,  where  glasses  are  filled  and  emptied  freely,  and 
men  sit  with  half-intoxicated  women  on  their  knees,  sacrific- 
ing to  insatiable  idols. 

It  was  a  summer  evening,  bright  and  clear.  The  noise  of 
day  had  ceased,  and  few  were  abroad.  It  seemed  like  a 
Sunday,  just  before  evening  service,  when  all  were  preparing 
for  devotion,  and  he  alone  walked  with  workaday  thoughts 
in  his  mind. 

A  narrow  door  with  a  grating  in  the  centre.  Olof  stood 
a  moment,  evidently  in  doubt,  and  walked  on — his  heart  was 
thumping  in  his  breast.  The  consciousness  of  it  irritated 
him,  and  turning  back  impatiently,  he  knocked  loudly  at  the 
door. 

No  sound  from  within.     He  felt  as  if  thousands  of  eyes 

147 


148   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

were  watching  him  scornfully,  and  for  a  moment  he  thought 
of  flight.    He  knocked  again,  hurriedly,  nervously. 

A  pause  that  seemed  unendurably  long,  then  a  sound  of 
movement  and  steps  approaching  the  door — the  panel  was 
moved  aside. 

"What's  all  the  noise  about?"  cried  a  woman's  shrill  voice. 
"In  a  hurry,  aren't  you?  Get  along,  and  that  quick — off  with 
you!"     The  panel  closed  with  a  slam. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Olof's  cheeks;  for  a  moment  he  felt 
like  breaking  down  the  door  and  flinging  it  into  the  street — 
he  would  gladly  have  pulled  the  house  down  in  his  fury. 

Wondering  faces  appeared  here  and  there  at  the  windows. 
They  were  looking  at  him  as  if  he  were  a  criminal — a  burglar 
trying  to  force  an  entry  in  broad  daylight.  Half-running,  he 
hastened  back  to  the  main  streets  of  the  town.  Then  the 
fury  seized  him  again — a  passion  of  wounded  pride  and  de- 
fiance. "Am  I  to  be  taken  for  a  boy?"  he  said  to  himself 
angrily. 

He  passed  a  row  of  waiting  cabs.  One  of  the  men  touched 
his  cap  inquiringly,  but  Olof  shook  his  head — the  fellow 
had  an  honest  face.  The  last  in  the  row  gave  him  what  he 
sought — a  sly  red  face  with  shifty  eyes. 

"Eh?  Take  you?  .  .  .  That's  easy  enough!  I  know  the 
very  house.  First-rate  girls,  all  of  them,  and  no  trouble. 
'Tis  the  best  sort  you'll  be  wanting,  I  take  it?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  the  style.  Just  step  in,  now,  and  we'll  be 
there.  .  .  ." 

The  cab  rumbles  away;  Olof  leans  back,  feeling  himself 
again. 


TO  THE  DREGS  149 

Through  a  gateway  into  a  cobbled  yard.  The  driver  gets 
down,  and  Olof  follows  suit.  The  man  knocks  with  the 
handle  of  his  whip  at  a  door. 

"  Tis  no  good  coming  at  this  time — the  girls  aren't  here 
yet."    And  the  door  is  slammed  in  his  face. 

"Drive  on,  then!  Drive  to  the  devil,  only  let's  get  out 
of  this,"  cries  Olof. 

"Nay,  nay,  no  call  to  give  up  now  we're  on  the  way."  The 
driver  swings  out  into  the  street  again,  and  tries  another  en- 
trance of  the  same  sort  farther  on. 

Olof  stood  half-dazed,  waiting. 

This  time  the  knock  was  answered  by  a  girl's  voice,  bright 
and  pleasant.  The  driver  and  the  girl  exchanged  whispers 
through  the  door.  "Sober?  Ay,  he's  sober  enough.  Young 
chap,  and  plenty  of  money — wants  the  best  sort." 

Olof's  blood  boiled.  Was  he  to  be  bargained  for  like  a 
beast  in  the  cattle  market?  He  was  on  the  point  of  calling 
the  man  away,  when  the  door  opened  a  little.  "Right  you 
are,  then,"  said  the  man,  with  a  knowing  gleam  in  his 
eyes. 

"Good  evening — won't  you  come  in?"  A  young  girl, 
neatly  dressed,  held  the  door  open  for  Olof  with  a  smile. 

He  went  through  the  passage  into  a  little  parlour.  The 
heavy-scented  air  of  the  place  was  at  once  soothing  and  ex- 
citing to  his  senses. 

"Sit  down,  won't  you?  But  what  are  you  looking  so 
serious  about?     Has  your  girl  thrown  you  over — or  what?" 

"Now,  how  on  earth  did  you  guess  that?"  cried  Olof  in 
sudden  relief,  thankful  that  the  girl  was  so  bright  and  talk- 
ative. He  felt  all  at  once  that  he  too  must  talk — of  anything, 
nothing,  or  he  could  not  stay  in  the  place  a  minute. 


150  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"Guess?  Why,  that's  easy  enough.  They  always  come 
here  when  there's  anything  wrong  with — the  others.  And 
there's  always  something  wrong  with  some  of  them.  Was  she 
prett)'?"  The  girl  looked  at  him  with  a  mischievous  gleam 
in  her  eyes. 

"Pretty? — yes,  that  she  was,  pretty  as  you,  nearly." 

"Puh!"  laughed  the  girl.  "And  she  kissed  you,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"No.     Wouldn't  even  kiss  me." 

"Aha.  So  you  made  love  to  another  girl,  and  then  she 
threw  you  over — that  was  it,  I'm  sure." 

"Right  again!  Yes — made  love  to  another  girl — that  was 
it.     And  quite  enough  too." 

"Oh,  it's  always  the  way  mth — well,  that  sort  of  girls. 
They  don't  understand  how  to  make  love  a  bit.  There's 
heaps  of  love  to  be  had,  if  you  only  know  where  to  look 
for  it." 

They  both  laughed — ^the  girl  in  easy,  teasing  gaiety,  Olof 
still  thankful  at  finding  it  so  easy  to  suit  himself  to  his 
company. 

"What'll  you  have  to  drink?  Sherry,  madeira,  or  stout, 
perhaps?     I  like  sherry  best" 

"Let's  have  all  three!"  cried  Olof. 

^'That'll  be  twenty,  please."  He  gave  her  the  money  and 
she  slipped  from  the  room. 

Olof  looked  round.  How  was  this  going  to  end?  He 
was  thankful  at  any  rate  that  the  room  was  neatly,  almost 
tastefully  furnished,  and  that  the  girl  was  so  easy  to  talk  to. 

The  bottles  and  glasses  were  brought  in.  "Here's  to  us 
both!"  cried  the  girl,  lifting  her  glass  with  an  enticing  glance. 


TO  THE  DREGS  151 

They  drank — it  was  the  first  time  Olof  had  ever  tasted 
wine.  And  all  the  bitterness  and  unrest  in  his  soul  seemed 
drowned  at  once. 

"I  say — is  this  your  first  time?"  The  girl  explained  her 
question  with  a  meaning  glance. 

"Yes."  The  word  stuck  in  his  throat.  "Have  some  more 
to  drink,"  he  added  hastily. 

"That's  right!"     The  glasses  rang.  "Got  any  cigarettes?" 

Each  lit  a  cigarette.  The  girl  leaned  back  in  a  careless 
posture,  throwing  one  leg  over  the  other,  and  watched  the 
smoke  curling  up  in  the  air. 

"First-rate  institution,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  with  a  laugh. 
"Sort  of  pubhc  sanatorium — though  the  fools  of  police  or 
Government  or  whatever  you  call  it  won't  make  it  free.  All 
you  men  come  here  when  you're  tired  and  worried  and  ill, 
and  we  cure  you — isn't  that  it?" 

"I  dare  say.  .  .  ." 

"But  it  is,  though,  take  my  word  for  it.  How'd  you  ever 
get  on  without  us,  d'you  think?  Like  fish  out  of  water! 
And  yet  we're  reckoned  as  outcasts  and  all  that.  Devil  take 
all  your  society  women,  I  say.  There's  one  I  see  pass  by 
every  day,  a  judge's  wife,  haughty  and  stuck  up  as  a 
weathercock  on  a  church  spire.  Think  she'd  look  at  one 
of  us?    But  her  husband,  bless  you,  he  .  .  ." 

"For  Heaven's  sake  talk  of  something  else,"  cried  Olof. 
He  swallowed  a  glass  of  sherry  to  cover  his  disgust. 

"Eh?  Oh,  all  right,  anything  you  please.  Sing  you  a 
song  if  you  like.     What  d'you  say  to  that?" 

"Yes,  but  nothing  .  .  ." 

"Not  a  word.    Dainty  little  song.    Here  you  are: 


152  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"  'Here's  a  corner  for  you  and  me, 
Room  for  two — but  not  for  three  1 
A  glass  for  each  within  easy  reach  .  .  . 
Just  the  place  for  a  spree!' 

"How's  that?     Quite  nice,  isn't  it?" 

"Go  on."     Olof  settled  down  more  comfortably;  there  was 

something  pleasantly  fascinating  in  the  dance-like  rhythm 

of  the  song. 

"Cushions  are  soft,  and  curtains  hide, 
— What  would  somebody  say  if  they  spied? 
Kisses  and  laughter — and  what  comes  after  .  .  .? 
Ah  .  .  . 
You  never  know   till  you've   tried!" 

Olof  could  not  help  laughing. 

They  sat  laughing  and  talking  and  telling  stories — the 
girl  was  never  silent  for  a  moment.  The  glasses  were  filled 
and  emptied,  the  smoke  grew  thicker. 

"Oh  .  .  .  it's  too  hot.  I'm  stifling  with  all  these  things 
on!"  The  girl  rose  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  glittered,  her 
cheeks  were  flushed  with  wine.  "I'll  be  back  in  a  second." 
And  she  slipped  through  into  the  adjoining  room. 

"Do,  if  you  like."  Olof  sank  back  idly  on  the  sofa, 
watching  the  smoke  from  his  cigarette  thoughtfully.  Still  he 
was  not  quite  at  home  in  the  place. 

The  girl  came  in  like  a  vision,  tripping  daintilv  in  light 
slippers,  her  arms  bare  to  the  shoulder,  her  body  scarcely 
veiled  by  the  thinnest,  transparent  wrap. 

"Oh!"    Olof  could  not  repress  an  exclamation. 

"Ah  .  .  .!"  The  girl  laughed  mischievously.  Watching 
his  face  \vith  a  coquettish  smile,  she  lifted  one  foot  grace- 
fully on  to  the  sofa,  and  leaned  towards  him,  her  eyes  boldly 
questioning. 


TO  THE  DREGS  153 

Olof  felt  his  senses  in  a  whirl.  He  saw  in  her  a  mingling 
of  human  being,  beast  and  angel,  of  slave  and  mistress — a 
creature  fascinating  and  enticing,  bewitching,  ensnaring. 
But  only  for  a  moment.  His  mood  changed  to  one  of  fury 
at  his  own  susceptibility;  the  burning  thirst  in  the  girl's 
eyes,  the  fumes  of  wine  in  her  breath,  repelled  him. 

"Sit  down  and  drink — and  let  that  be  enough!"  He 
snatched  a  bottle  hastily  and  filled  the  glasses  to  the  brim. 

"Ho!"  said  the  girl,  A\dth  a  stare.  "Drink — is  that  all 
you-'ve  come  for?" 

"Yes!" 

She  stepped  down  from  the  sofa,  her  features  quivering 
with  scorn. 

"Well,  you're  a  nice  one,  you  are.  If  they  were  all  like 
that — drink  and  pay  the  bill  and  off  again — and  not  so 
much  as  a  .  .  .  well,  you're  the  first  I've  met  of  that  sort 
— hope  you'll  enjoy  it!" 

She  drank,  and  set  down  the  glass,  a  sneer  still  quiver- 
ing about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

Then,  leaning  her  elbows  on  the  table,  she  gazed  at  him 
thoughtfully  under  her  lowered  lashes.  Olof  smoked  furious- 
ly, till  his  cigarette  looked  like  a  streak  of  fire. 

The  girl  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  at  the  farther  end,  and 
went  on  with  a  maudlin  tenderness  in  her  voice: 

"Why  are  you  like  that — a  man  like  you?  I  wouldn't 
now  for  money,  whatever  you  offered  me.  Can't  you  see 
I'm  in  love  with  you?  Or  d'you  suppose  perhaps  a  girl — 
a  girl  in  a  place  like  this — can't  love?  Ah,  but  she  can, 
and  more  than  any  of  the  other  sort,  maybe.  I'd  like  to  love 
a  real  man  just  for  once — I've  had  enough  of  beasts.  Stay 
with  me  to-night — won't  you  .  .  .?" 


164  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

Olof  shuddered   in   disgust. 

"Drink!"  he  cried.  "Drink,  and  don't  sit  there  talking 
nonsense." 

Then  again  a  revulsion  seized  him,  and  with  a  feeling  of 
despair  and  weakness,  he  went  on: 

"I  can't  stay  here,  I  must  go — I  must  go  in  a  minute. 
Never  mind.     Drink." 

"Oh,  let's  drink,  then,"  said  the  girl  bitterly,  and,  rising, 
emptied  her  glass.  "Drink — yes,  and  drink  and  drink — 
'tis  the  only  thing  when  once  you're — here."  She  sank 
down  into  a  seat.  "Night  and  day,  morning  and  night — 
there's  none  of  us  could  stand  it  if  it  wasn't  for  that  stuff 
there.     Ho,  the  world's  a  mad  place — what  a  fool  I  am!" 

She  burst  into  tears,  and  fell  forward  with  her  arms  on 
the  table. 

Olof  felt  more  miserable  than  before.  The  blood  was 
pulsing  in  his  temples,  and  something  choking  in  his  throat, 
as  he  looked  at  the  sobbing  figure. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  this  place  is,"  she  said,  looking  up  be- 
tween sobs.  "  'Tis  hell — and  in  hell  you're  always  wanting 
something  to  wet  the  tip  of  your  tongue — I've  read  that 
somewhere,  haven't  I?  Oh,  oh  .  .  .!"  She  fell  to  sobbing 
again. 

Olof  felt  he  could  bear  it  no  longer.  He  would  have  liked 
to  comfort  her,  but  his  tongue  was  dry,  he  could  not  speak. 

Then  suddenly  the  girl  jumped  up  and  struck  the  table 
with  her  fist,  shaking  tlie  things  on  the  tray.  "What  the 
hell  am  I  snivelling  about — 'twon't  make  it  any  better."  She 
took  the  bottle  of  beer,  filled  a  tumbler  and  drank  it  off  at  a 
draught,  then  flung  the  glass  crashing  against  the  wall  be- 
hind the  stove. 


TO  THE  DREGS  155 

"Puh !  Now  I've  got  that  wretched  fit  again."  She  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  looking  round.  "I  can't  help  it, 
I  get  like  that  ever>-  now  and  then.  Wait  a  bit,  and  I'll 
bring  you  better  company,  A  real  good  girl — she's  younger 
than  me,  and  only  just  beginning,  but  she's  lovely,  lovely 
as  an  angel.  Only  don't  go  and  fall  in  love  with  her,  or 
I'll  be  jealous." 

"No!  Stay  where  you  are!"  Olof  would  have  stopped 
her,  but  she  was  out  of  the  door  in  a  moment.  He  rose  to 
his  feet,  his  head  was  throbbing,  and  he  could  hardly  stand. 

"Here  you  are — here's  the  beauty!" 

A  bright-eyed  girl,  young  and  slightly  built,  stood  in  the 
doorway  smiling. 

Olof  started  as  if  he  had  seen  a  ghost,  the  blood  seemed 
to  stand  still  in  his  veins;  a  cold  weight  seemed  crushing 
him  like  an  iceberg. 

"You — Gazelle!"  he  cried  in  horror. 

"Olof!" 

"Oh,  so  you're  old  friends,  it  seems?  WeU,  then,  shake 
hands  nicely.    Come  along,  man,  give  her  a  kiss  ,  .  ." 

Olof  felt  the  room  growing  dark  before  his  eyes. 

The  girl  turned  deathly  pale.  She  stood  a  moment,  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot,  then  turned  and  fled.  There  was 
the  sound  of  a  key  drawn  from  a  lock,  a  door  was  slammed, 
and  then  silence. 

Olof  stood  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot,  seeing  nothing  but  a 
vague  glimmer  of  light  through  a  rent  in  blackness.  Then 
at  last  he  pulled  himself  together,  snatched  up  his  hat,  and 
rushed  out  of  the  place  as  if  pursued  by  demons. 

Morning  found  him  seated  on  a  chair  by  the  window,  look- 


166   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

ing  out.  Tlie  night  had  been  cold.  Before  him  lay  a  group 
of  housetops,  the  dark  roofs  covered  with  a  thin  white  coating 
of  rime;  beyond,  a  glimpse  of  a  grey,  cold  sky. 

He  had  been  sitting  thus  all  night,  deep  in  thought.  His 
road  seemed  ending  here  in  a  blank  wall — or  he  was  grown 
suddenly  old,  and  could  go  no  farther — or  was  trying  vainly 
to  rise  from  a  bed  of  sickness.  His  eyes  burned,  his  head 
was  heavy  as  lead,  and  his  heart  seemed  dead  and  cold,  as 
hands  and  feet  may  do  in  winter  when  on  the  point  of 
freezing. 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  and  bathed  his  face  again  and  again 
with  cold  water.  Then  he  straightened  his  hair,  put  on  his 
clothes,  and  went  out. 

He  took  his  way  direct  to  a  certain  street,  reached  the 
house  he  was  seeking,  and  knocked.  There  were  people 
moving  in  the  yard,  and  some  children  about;  but  he  felt  no 
shame,  and  knocked  as  easily  as  if  it  had  been  a  church 
door. 

The  panel  opened,  and  the  harsh  voice  of  an  old  woman 
asked : 

"What  d'you  want  here  at  this  hour?  The  girls  are  not 
up  yet." 

"When  will  they  be  up?" 

"In  a  couple  of  hours  or  so." 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  went  out  into  the  street 
For  a  while  he  wandered  up  and  do\Mi,  then  took  the  road 
out  from  the  town,  and  went  straight  on. 

When  he  came  back  his  face  was  pale;  his  feet  were  so 
weary  he  could  hardly  drag  himself  along. 

He  knocked  again;  the  panel  was  thrust  aside,  and  a  face 
peeped  through,  then  the  door  was  opened. 


TO  THE  DREGS  157 

"Hallo!"  It  was  the  girl  of  the  night  before.  She  was 
half -dressed,  her  eyes  dull,  her  face  tired  and  haggard.  Olof 
felt  as  if  he  were  breathing  in  the  fumes  of  beer  and  wine 
and  all  unspeakable  nastiness. 

"Your  friend — is  she  up  yet?  I  want  to  see  her,"  he 
stammered. 

"Up — ay,  she's  up  long  ago;  you  can  see  for  yourself." 

She  vanished  down  the  passage,  and  returned  in  a  moment 
with  a  crumpled  sheet  of  notepaper,  which  she  handed  him. 

Olof  glanced  at  it,  and  read,  hastily  scribbled  in  pencil, 
these  words: 

"When  you  get  this  I  shall  be  far  away.  I  am  going  and 
not  coming  back.     I  can't  stay  here. — Elli." 

"There — what's  the  meaning  of  that,  if  you  please?" 
cried  the  girl. 

Olof  made  no  answer.  He  held  the  paper  in  a  trembling 
hand,  and  read  it  again  and  again;  a  weight  seemed  lifted 
from  his  shoulders. 

"May  I — may  I  keep  this?"  he  asked,  with  flushing  cheeks. 

"Keep  it — ay,  eat  it,  if  you  like." 

"Good-bye — and — and  .  .  ."  He  pressed  the  girl's  hand, 
as  if  unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing. 

The  girl  watched  him  as  he  hurried  away. 

"Queer  lot,"  she  murmured.  "Something  wrong  some- 
where. ..." 


BY  THE  ROADSIDE 

A  MAN  came  walking  down  the  sandy,  grass-bordered 
road. 
He  walked  mechanically,  like  a  machine  set  to 
go,  and  going  without  consciousness  or  effort — without  a 
question  or  a  thought,  ^^^thout  a  glance  to  either  side — on 
and  on. 

He  reached  the  top  of  a  rise  from  which  the  road  sloped 
down  to  tlie  valley.  And  here  he  stopped,  as  if  set  to  go 
no  farther. 

Before  him  spread  the  landscape  of  the  valley;  green 
woods  encircled  it  on  every  hand,  hke  a  protecting  fence 
about  a  pleasure-garden-  Within  the  area  enclosed  were 
mounds  and  hilly  fields,  stretches  of  meadow,  farmsteads, 
rows  of  cornsheaves  and  haystacks,  patches  of  stubble,  a 
tiny  stream  with  a  bridge  and  a  fall,  and  mills  on  either 
bank. 

A  thrill  of  emotion  seized  the  wanderer  at  sight  of  it  all; 
one  glance  let  loose  a  flood  of  memories  and  thoughts  of 
things  long  since  forgotten. 

All  seemed  as  before.  He  looked  at  the  stream,  and  fol- 
lowed the  line  of  its  course  \d\h.  his  eye.  The  mills  stared 
at  one  another  from  bank  to  bank,  as  they  had  always  done 
since  the  beginning  of  time.  But  the  mills  themselves  had 
changed.  The  old  wooden  structures  were  gone,  and  in  place 
of  them  stood  modem  stone- walled  buildings. 

158 


BY  THE  ROADSIDE  159 

A  lightning  thought  came  into  his  mind:  was  there  any- 
thing that  was  unchanged,  though  the  setting  seemed  as  it 
had  been?  What  might  not  have  happened  in  the  little  place 
during  those  years? 

The  wanderer  felt  uneasy  at  the  thought.  Here  he  was — 
but,  who  could  say  what  he  would  find  here,  now  he  had 
come? 

Slowly,  with  heavy  steps,  he  took  his  way  down  towards 
the  village.  And  ever  as  he  neared  it,  his  uneasiness  in- 
creased. 

He  came  to  a  turn  in  the  way.  From  just  beyond  came 
the  tinkle  of  a  bell,  and,  as  he  rounded  the  bend,  he  saw  a 
flock  of  sheep  grazing,  and  a  fair-haired  lad  watching  the 
flock. 

The  sight  gladdened  his  heart — the  sheep  and  the  shep- 
herd lad  at  least  were  as  he  had  hoped  to  find  them. 

"Good-day!"  he  said  heartily.  "And  whose  lad  are  you, 
little  man?" 

"Just  Stina's  boy,"  answered  the  young  herdsman  easily, 
from  his  seat  by  the  wayside. 

"Ho,  are  you?  .  .  .  yes."  The  wanderer  stepped  across 
the  ditch,  sat  down  by  the  wayside,  and  lit  his  pipe. 

"And  what's  the  news  in  the  place?  I've  been  here  before, 
d'ye  see,  and  used  to  know  it  well.  But  'tis  long  since  I 
heard  anything  from  these  parts." 

"News?  .  .  .  H'm."  The  lad  felt  a  pleasant  sense  of 
importance  at  being  thus  asked,  and  stepped  down  from  his 
seat.  "Well,  you've  heard,  maybe,  'twas  Mattila's  Tytto 
won  the  first  prize  at  the  cattle  show?" 


160   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"You  don't  say  so?  Mattila's  Tytto?"  echoed  the  stranger, 
with  a  laugh.     "And  what  else?" 

"Why,  there's  no  more  that  I  know  of — ^let  me  see  .  .  ." 
The  wise  little  eyes  grew  thoughtful.  "Oh,  I  forgot.  Yes, 
Maya,  she's  married,  and  they're  building  a  bit  of  a  place 
over  by  the  clearing  there.  Shoemaker,  he  was,  and  a  good 
match,  they  say." 

"I  see.  That'll  be  the  place.  Looks  as  good  as  could 
be." 

"  'Tis  a  fine  place.  Going  to  have  a  real  stove,  with  a 
baking  oven  and  all.  .  .  .  Then  there's  been  another  wed- 
ding besides,  at  Niemi — Annikki's  it  was.  Only  just  mar- 
ried— though  there's  been  plenty  that  asked  her  these  years 
past,  and  rich  men  some  of  them  too." 

"Yes  .  .  ."  The  wanderer  felt  as  if  something  had  struck 
him  in  the  breast.     Impatiently  he  went  on: 

"And  how's  things  at  Koskela?" 

"Koskela — well,  old  man  there  he  died  last  spring,  and 
they  say  .  ,  ." 

"Died?"  A  heavier  stroke  this;  it  seemed  to  paralyse 
him. 

"Yes — and  two  horses  to  the  funeral,  with  white  covers 
and  all.  And  silver  stars  all  over  the  coffin — like  the  sky  it 
was." 

The  wanderer  felt  himself  gazing  helplessly  into  a  dark- 
ness where  hosts  of  silver  stars  danced  before  his  eyes. 

"You  knew  him,  maybe?"  asked  the  lad,  watching  the 
man's  face. 

"Ay,  I  knew  him,"  came  the  answer  in  a  stifled  voice. 

"And  his  wife's  like  to  follow  him  soon,"  went  on  the 
boy.     "She's  at  the  last  gasp  now,  they  say." 


BY  THE  ROADSIDE  161 

The  wanderer  felt  as  if  something  were  tightening  about 
his  heart. 

"So  there's  neither  man  nor  wife,  so  to  speak,  at  Koskela 
now." 

The  wanderer  would  have  risen,  but  his  limbs  seemed 
numbed. 

"There  was  a  son,  they  say,  was  to  have  taken  over  the 
place,  but  he  went  away  somewhere  long  ago,  and  never  came 
back." 

The  wanderer  rose  to  his  feet.  "Thanks,  little  man." 
And  he  strode  off. 

The  lad  stared  wonderingly  at  the  retreating  figure,  whose 
heavy  steps  sounded  like  sighs  of  pain  from  the  breast  of 
the  trodden  road. 


THE  CUPBOARD 

COME  in,"  said  the  key  invitingly. 
But  the  weary  man  stood  motionless,  paralysed 
by  the  thought  that  had  come  to  him  as  he  reached 
the  door. 

"Come  in — you've  waited  long  enough  in  coming." 
And  the  weary  man  grasped  the  key,  but  stood  holding 
it  helplessly,  like  a  child  without  strength  to  turn  it. 

It  rattled  in  the  lock  under  his  trembling  fingers.  The 
noise  roused  him;  he  opened  the  door  and  went  in. 

It  was  like  entering  a  church.  A  solemn,  expectant  silence 
hung  over  the  place — it  was  just  as  it  had  been  when,  as  a 
child,  he  had  first  been  taken  to  church. 

And  now,  as  then,  his  glance  sought  first  of  all  the  farthest 
background  of  the  place.  What  he  saw  was  like  and  yet 
unlike  what  he  had  seen  there.  Then,  it  had  been  the  figure 
of  a  young  man,  holding  out  his  arms  over  a  group  of 
children;  now,  it  was  the  figure  of  an  old  woman,  worn  vdth 
sickness — but  with  the  same  great  gentleness  in  her  face. 

The  woman's  eyes  lit  up,  as  though  she  had  seen  a 
miracle;  her  glance  grew  keen,  as  if  wishing  to  be  sure,  and 
softened  again,  in  the  certainty  that  the  miracle  had  come. 

The  trembling  head  was  lifted,  the  frail  body  rose  up  like 
a  bent  bow,  her  mouth  opened,  and  her  lips  began  to  move, 
but  no  sound  came — she  could  but  reach  out  one  thin,  trem- 
bling hand  to  the  figure  by  the  door. 

162 


THE  CUPBOARD  163 

He  moved,  and  walked  over  to  the  bed.  And  the  old 
woman  and  the  weary  man  took  each  other's  hands  and 
pressed  them,  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  and  trembled 
with  emotion,  unable  to  speak  a  word. 

Tears  rose  to  the  old  woman's  eyes,  a  gleam  as  of  sunset 
over  autumn  woods  lit  her  wrinkled  face;  the  thin  lips 
quivered  between  smiling  and  weeping. 

"So  you  came  after  all,"  she  said  at  last  in  a  trembling 
voice.  "I  knew  you  would  come — some  time.  And  goo^ 
that  you  came  just  now  .  .  ." 

She  sank  back  wearily  on  the  pillow,  and  the  man  sat 
down  on  a  chair  at  her  side,  still  holding  her  hands  in  his. 

The  old  woman  lay  \vith  her  face  turned  towards  her  son, 
looking  at  him  with  love  in  her  eyes. 

Then  her  look  turned  to  one  of  questioning — there  was 
something  she  had  been  waiting  years  to  ask, 

"Tell  me,  my  son  .  .  ."    Her  voice  was  almost  a  whisper. 

But  he  could  not  answer. 

"Olof,  look  at  me,"  she  begged. 

And  the  man  beside  the  bed  lifted  his  eyes,  great  dark 
eyes  full  of  weariness  and  stark  fear — but  bowed  his  head 
again  and  looked  away. 

The  smile  vanished  from  the  old  woman's  face.  She  gazed 
long  and  searchingly  at  her  son's  haggard  chin,  his  sunken 
cheeks  and  loose  eyelids,  the  pale  forehead,  the  furrowed 
temples — everything. 

"Perhaps  it  has  to  be,"  she  murmured,  as  if  speaking  to 
someone  else.  "  ^Atid  wasted  all  his  substance  .  .  .  And  he 
said,  I  will  arise  and  .  .  .'  " 


164   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

Her  voice  trembled,  and  Olof,  in  a  hasty  glance,  saw  how 
her  wrinkled  mouth  quivered  with  emotion. 

And  suddenly  the  coldness  that  had  almost  paralysed  him 
up  to  now  seemed  to  melt  away.  He  fell  on  his  knees  be- 
side the  bed,  his  face  in  the  coverlet,  and  knelt  there  sobbing. 

It  was  as  in  church,  at  the  moment  when  each  single  heart 
withdraws  from  all  the  rest  to  offer  up  its  own  silent  prayer. 

The  old  woman  lay  resting  in  her  bed;  her  face  wore  the 
same  look  of  sorrowful  gentleness  that  it  had  done  for  years, 
despite  the  ravages  of  sickness. 

But  to-day,  signs  of  uneasiness  were  apparent;  shadows 
of  fear  seemed  flitting  ever  and  anon  over  her  features. 

Olof  wiped  his  mother's  forehead  gently.  "You  are  not 
so  well  to-day?"  he  asked. 

"  Tis  not  that — no.  I  called  you,  there  was  something  I 
wanted  to  say.  But  I'm  not  sure — perhaps  it  would  be  bet- 
ter not.  .  .  ." 

He  took  her  withered  hand  tenderly  in  his. 

"Why  do  you  think  that,  mother?  You  have  never  said 
anything  but  what  was  good." 

"  Twas  meant  to  be  so — ay,  that's  true.  But  there's  times 
when  it's  hard  to  say  what's  best  to  do,  and  it's  so  with  me 
now.  For  years  I've  been  thinking  to  tell  you  before  I  closed 
my  eyes  the  last  time.  And  it's  been  a  comfort  to  me  in 
many  trials.     But  now  I  come  to  say  it  .  .  ." 

The  sick  woman's  breast  heaved,  and  drops  of  sweat  stood 
out  on  her  forehead. 

"Best  not  to  think  too  much  if  it  worries  you,"  said  Olof, 
wiping  her  brow  once  more.     "  'Twill  be  all  right  in  time." 

"  'Tis  right  enough — I  know  that  really.     Twould  be  a 


THE  CUPBOARD  165 

wrong  to  myself  and  you,  and  to  all  I've  hoped  and  believed, 
if  I  didn't  speak — yet  it's  hard  to  begin.  Come  closer,  you 
too,  Heikki — I  can't  speak  so  loud.  .  .  ." 

The  elder  brother,  who  had  just  come  in  from  the  fields 
with  his  muddy  boots  on,  had  sat  down  close  to  the  door. 
He  moved  his  chair  now  nearer  the  bed. 

The  sick  woman  lay  for  a  while  in  thought,  as  if  weigh- 
ing the  matter  in  her  mind.  Then  she  looked  long  and 
earnestly  at  her  two  sons. 

"You  two  will  have  to  divide  what's  left,"  she  said  at 
last.  "And  I've  not  said  a  word  of  it  before;  you're  not  like 
to  quarrel  over  it,  I  know.  But  there's  one  thing  in  the 
place  that  I  want  to  keep  separate  from  the  rest,  and  give 
it  up  to  you  now,  before  I  go." 

She  sighed,  and  was  silent  for  a  while,  as  if  needing 
rest  before  she  could  continue.  The  two  young  men  watched 
her  expectantly. 

"  'Tis  nothing  of  great  value,  but  it's  all  tied  up  like  with 
something  that  happened  once,  and  all  the  thoughts  of  it — 
and  'tis  valuable  to  me.     I  mean  the  cupboard  there." 

The  sons  glanced  at  the  thing  where  it  stood;  an  old  cup- 
board in  two  sections,  that  they  knew  well. 

"You  look  surprised.     Oh,  if  I  could  only  tell  you.  .  .  ." 

She  gazed  upwards  in  silence,  as  if  praying  for  strength. 
Then,  with  a  strange  light  in  her  eyes,  she  turned  towards 
them  and  went  on  almost  in  a  whisper,  as  one  who  tells  a 
tale   of   ghosts : 

"It  was  long  ago.  In  this  very  room,  on  this  very  bed 
here  lay  a  woman  who  had  borne  a  man-child  but  four 
days  before.  She  had  always  been  tender  and  faithful  and 
obedient  to  her  husband,  and  had  tried  to  do  his  will  in 


166  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

everything.  And  she  had  been  happy,  very  happy.  But  be- 
fore the  child  was  born  a  suspicion  had  begun  to  grow  up 
secretly  in  her  mind.  And  now,  on  the  fifth  night,  as  she 
lay  there  with  the  newborn  child,  in  the  pale  light  from  a 
lamp  on  the  shelf  of  the  cupboard  there,  the  fear  at  her 
heart  grew  all  of  a  sudden  so  strong  that  she  got  up,  and 
went  into  the  next  room,  to  see  if  what  she  dreaded  was 
true.  .  .  ." 

The  sick  woman  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  to  hide  the 
tears  that  forced  themselves  into  her  eyes. 

"But  the  one  she  sought  was  not  there,  and  driven  by 
fear,  she  crossed  the  courtyard,  barefooted,  and  half-clad  as 
she  was,  in  the  cold,  over  to  the  still-room.  They  used  to 
make  spirits  at  home  in  those  days.  She  opened  the  door 
softly  and  looked  in.  There  the  fire  was  burning,  and  by 
the  flickering  light  she  saw  a  woman — a  young  woman  then 
— ^lying  on  a  bed,  and  beside  her  the  man  she  herself  had 
risen  from  her  childbed  to  seek.  And  at  the  sight  of  them 
her  heart  died  in  her.  She  would  have  cried  aloud,  but  only 
a  groan  came  from  her  lips,  and  she  went  back,  dreading  at 
every  step  lest  her  legs  should  fail  her.  ..." 

The  sick  woman  gasped  for  breath,  and  lay  trembling; 
the  listeners  sat  as  if  turned  to  stone. 

"How  she  got  back,"  went  on  the  old  woman,  "she  did 
not  know  herself;  only  there  she  was,  sitting  on  the  bed 
beside  her  child,  pressing  her  hands  to  her  breast,  that  felt 
as  if  it  would  burst.  Then  she  heard  footsteps  outside,  and 
a  moment  later  the  door  opened,  and  with  a  roar  like  a 
wild  beast,  a  man  strode  in — furious,  with  bloodshot  eyes. 
He  uttered  a  dreadful  curse,  and  swung  up  an  axe  above 
his  head.     The  woman  almost  fainted  with  fright.     Then 


THE  CUPBOARD  167 

behind  him  she  saw  her  sister  reaching  up  with  a  cry  of 
horror  towards  the  axe  he  held.  It  flew  from  his  hand,  the 
steel  shone  in  the  lamplight — and  what  happened  after  she 
did  not  know.  ..." 

It  was  as  if  the  axe  had  fallen  at  that  moment,  striking 
them  all  three.  The  mother  closed  her  eyes.  Olof  was 
trembling  from  head  to  foot;  his  brother  crouched  in  his 
seat,  his  features  stiff  with  horror. 

"When  she  came  to  herself,"  went  on  the  sick  woman  in 
a  trembling  voice,  "her  husband  was  sitting  beside  her,  with 
his  head  in  his  hands,  his  face  ashy  pale,  his  eyes  blood- 
shot, and  his  body  trembling  all  over  as  if  shivering  with 
cold.  The  axe  had  flown  straight  over  the  place  where 
mother  and  child  had  been,  missing  them  by  an  inch,  and 
stuck  fast  in  the  cupboard  beyond — it  was  standing  there 
as  it  stands  now.  .  .  ." 

The  woman  sighed  as  if  in  relief  to  find  the  danger  past. 

Olof  grasped  her  hand  eagerly,  pressed  it,  and  looked  im- 
ploringly into  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  nodded,  "he  begged  forgiveness — and  she 
forgave  him.  And  they  were  friends  again.  And  that  night 
he  fetched  up  some  putty  from  the  cellar  and  filled  the  hole 
the  axe  had  made,  and  painted  it  over  afterwards.  But — you 
can  see  where  it  was.  .  .  ." 

Olof  rose  to  his  feet  and  walked  over  mechanically  to  the 
cupboard;  his  elder  brother  sat  still  on  his  chair,  looking 
over  at  the  place  in  silent  horror. 

"You  can  see — it  struck  just  between  the  two  sides,  and 
cut  deep  into  the  edges.  It's  plain  to  be  seen,  for  all  it's 
painted  over  now.    As  for  the  woman.  .  .  ." 


168  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  her  face  pale  and  bloodless,  her 
features  quivering  with  painful  emotion. 

"The  woman — she  forgave  him,  and  never  a  harsh  word 
between  them  after.  Folk  said  they  lived  so  happily  to- 
gether. .  .  .  But  the  hurt — the  hurt  was  there.  A  woman's 
heart's  not  a  thing  to  be  healed  uith  any  putty  and 
paint.  .  .  ." 

She  was  silent,  but  her  face  was  eloquent  with  feeling  still. 

Olof  went  back  to  his  place,  took  her  hand  and  kissed 
it  again  and  again,  with  tears,  as  if  praying  for  forgiveness. 
For  the  first  time  he  realised  the  inner  meaning  of  his 
mother's  nature  as  he  knew  it — the  undertone  of  sadness  in 
her  gentle  ways.  And  he  could  not  free  himself  from  a 
strange,  inexplicable  feeling  of  guilt  in  himself,  though  till 
that  day  he  had  known  nothing  of  her  secret. 

"And  for  the  man  .  .  .  well,  well,  let  him  rest  in  peace! 
'Twas  not  from  any  thought  to  soil  his  memorj' — but  you're 
grown  men  now,  my  sons,  and  when  you've  wives  of  your 
own  .  .  .  Ay,  a  good  man  he  was  in  many  ways,  a  clever 
worker.  And  I  know  he  suffered  himself  for — for  the  other 
thing.  He'll  be  judged,  as  we  shall  all  be  judged — we've  all 
of  us  enough  to  answer  for.  ..." 

For  a  long  time  the  sick  woman  lay  as  if  overwhelmed 
by  stress  of  feeling,  unable  to  speak.  Olof,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  sat  deep  in  thought;  the  elder  son  had  not  moved, 

"And  now  I  can  leave  it  to  you,"  she  went  on  more  calmly. 
"  'Tis  all  tied  up,  as  1  said,  with  thoughts  of  that  time, 
ay,  and  hopes  and  prayers,  all  the  best  and  the  hardest  in 
my  life.  And  I'm  not  the  only  one  that's  had  such  things 
to  bear  through  life.     There's  many  a  one  the  world  knows 


THE  CUPBOARD  169 

nothing  of,  for  a  woman  can  bear  a  great  sorrow  and  never 
speak  of  it.  And  I've  heard  since,  that  there  was  trouble 
of  the  same  sort  here  in  the  house  before  my  day.  .  .  . 
Heaven  grant  I  may  be  the  last  to  suffer!  And  so  I  wanted 
you  to  take  the  thing  between  you — half  to  each — the  scar's 
between  them,  so  you'll  share  that  too.  Remember  it,  and 
tell  your  children  some  time.  And  they  can  pass  on  the  legacy 
to  theirs — with  all  the  hopes  and  prayers  and  tears  it  brought 
— only  let  the  name  be  forgotten!" 

All  three  looked  earnestly  at  the  grim  heirloom  that  stood 
there  reaching  from  floor  to  ceiling;  it  seemed  to  grow,  as  they 
watched,  into  a  monument  over  the  grave  of  many  generations. 

The  sick  woman  turned  anxiously  to  her  sons. 

"Will  you  take  it?"  she  asked.  "Will  you  take  it,  with 
all  that  it  means  .  .  .?" 

Olof  pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips  in  answer.  The  elder 
brother  sat  motionless,  as  before,  his  eyelids  trembled  as 
if  he  were  on  the  point  of  tears.  His  mother  read  his 
answer  in  his  eyes. 

"I'm  glad  it's  over  now,"  she  said  in  relief.  "And  now  I've 
no  more  to  give  you,  but — my  blessing!" 

Her  face  lit  with  the  same  great  gentleness  that  had 
softened  it  for  years,  she  looked  long  and  tenderly  at  her 
sons. 

"Olof,"  she  said  at  last,  as  if  to  wake  him  from  his 
thoughts;  "it  happened  at  the  time  before  you  were 
born.  .  .  ." 

The  elder  son  looked  at  his  mother  in  astonishment — why 
should  she  tell  them  what  they  had  known  all  along? 

But  Olof  looked  up  suddenly,  as  if  he  had  heard  some- 


170  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD  RED  FLOWER 

thing  new  and  significant.  The  quiver  in  his  mother's 
voice  told  him  vi^hat  she  meant,  the  look  in  her  eyes  seemed 
to  shed  a  light  on  what  had  been  dark  before. 

Questioningly  he  looked  at  her,  as  if  silently  asking  con- 
firmation of  his  thought. 

She  nodded  almost  imperceptibly, 

"I  have  often  thought  of  that,  these  last  sad  years.  .  .  ." 

Olof  felt  as  if  a  mighty  storm  had  suddenly  torn  away 
a  dark,  overshadowing  gro\\'th,  laying  bare  the  heart  of  a 
fearsome  place — deep  clefts  and  stagnant  pools  and  treach- 
erous bogs. 

"Ay,  there's  much  that's  hard  to  understand,"  she  whis- 
pered in  his  ear,  "But  go  to  your  work,  now,  sons.  I'm 
tired  now,  leave  me  to  rest.  ,  .  ." 

The  young  men  rose  and  left  the  room.  In  the  doorway 
they  turned  and  cast  a  last  glance  at  their  mother,  but 
she  seemed  no  longer  to  heed  them.  She  lay  with  her  hands 
folded  on  her  breast,  gazing  calmly  at  the  old  cupboard  where 
it  stood  by  the  wall,  like  a  monument  above  the  grave  of  many 
generations. 


THE  HOUSE  BUILDING 

THE  funeral  was  over. 
The  two  brothers  sat  by  the  window,  in  thought- 
ful mood,  and  speaking  little. 

".  .  .  And  you'll  take  over  the  place  now,  of  course," 
said  Olof  to  his  elder  brother,  "and  work  the  farm  as  it's 
always  been  done  since  it's  been  in  the  family.  'Twon't  be 
long,  I  doubt,  before  you  bring  home  a  wife  to  be  mistress 
here.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  I  take  it  you'll  go  on  as  before?" 

"What's  in  your  mind  now?"  asked  Heikki,  with  a  little 
sharp  cough. 

"Only  what  I've  said — that  you'll  take  over  Koskela  now," 
said  Olof  cheerfully. 

"H'm.  You  know  well  enough  'twas  always  meant  that 
you  were  to  take  over  the  place — I'm  not  the  sort  to  be  master 
myself.  Look  after  the  men  at  their  work — yes.  But  run 
the  place  by  myself  .  .  ." 

"You'll  soon  get  into  the  way  of  it,"  said  Olof  encourag- 
ingly. "And  as  to  the  men — I've  an  idea  a  farm's  the 
better  for  a  master  that  works  with  his  men  as  you've  always 
done,  instead  of  going  about  talking  big  and  doing  nothing." 

The  elder  brother  cleared  his  throat  again,  and  sat  staring 
before  him,  drumming  with  his  fingers  on  the  edge  of  the 
chair. 

"And  what  about  you?"  he  asked,  after  a  while. 

"Oh,  I'll  look  after  myself  all  right.  Build  a  bit  of  a 
house,  and  maybe  turn  up  a  patch  of  ground  or  so." 

171 


172   SONG  OF  THE  HLOOD-RED  ^LOWER 

"Build  a  house  .  .  .  ?"  rcf)eated  the  other  in  surprise. 

"Yes.  You  see,  brother,  each  goes  his  own  way,"  went 
on  Olof  licavily.  "And  I've  a  sort  of  feeling  now  that  I  can't 
live  on  an}thing  out  of  the  past.  I  must  try  and  build  up 
a  life  for  myself,  all  anew.  If  I  can  do  that,  perhaps  I  may 
be  able  to  go  on  living." 

The  elder  brother  stared  with  wde  eyes,  as  if  hstening 
to  words  in  a  strange  tongue.  Then  he  began  drumming 
with  his  fingers  again.  ' 

"H'm.  I  don't  know  quite  what  you  mean,  but  it's  no 
business  of  mine,  anyway."  He  spoke  with  a  touch  of  respect 
in  his  voice,  as  if  to  a  superior.  "We'll  have  to  do  as  you 
say.  But  do  you  think  Koskela  will  be  the  same  with  none 
but  me  to  look  to  it  all?" 

"Surely  it  will!"  said  Olof  warmly. 

"Why,  then,  have  it  as  you  please.  But  if  things  begin 
to  go  wrong  here,  then  you'll  have  to  take  over  yourself." 

"I  will  if  need  be.  But  by  the  time  you've  ploughed  this 
autumn  you'll  see  yourself  there  will  be  no  need.  Good 
luck  go  with  you,  brother,  and  with  the  place." 

"H'm."  The  elder  brother  coughed  again.  "And  what 
about  the  price.    W'e  must  fix  that  beforehand." 

"What  for?  You  take  over  the  place  as  it  stands,  and 
you'll  find  it  good  enough.  Give  me  the  bit  of  marshland 
at  Isosuo,  and  the  oat  fields  adjoining,  and  the  little  copse 
that's  fenced  in  with  it,  and  that's  all  I  want.  You  can  let 
me  take  what  timber  I  want  from  your  part,  for  building 
and  such." 

"Ho,  so  you  think  that's  fair,  do  you?"  said  his  brother 
eagerly.  "A  nice  bit  of  ground — and  there's  all  the  clay 
you'll  need  ready  to  hand.     But  it'll  cost  a  deal  of  hard 


THE  HOUSE  BUILDING  173 

work  to  drain  and  clear  it — I've  thought  over  that  many  a 
time.  As  for  the  building  timber — you  shall  have  all  you 
want,  and  help  for  the  carting.  But  all  the  same  we  must 
fix  a  price  for  Koskela  as  a  whole,  and  make  a  fair  division." 

"There's  nothing  to  divide,  I  tell  you.  You  take  over 
the  whole  place,  except  the  bit  I've  said.  You  see  how  it 
is:  each  of  us  wants  to  give  more  than  the  other's  \Wlling  to 
take,  so  there's  no  need  to  quarrel  about  that.  And  if  I  want 
anything  later  on,  I'll  ask  you  for  it;  if  there's  anjthing 
you  want,  you'll  come  to  your  brother  first." 

"Well,  well — I  dare  say  it'll  be  all  right.  Anyhow,  I'll 
do  what  I  can  to  keep  up  Koskela  as  it's  always  been." 

And  the  elder  brother  began  once  more  drumming  with  his 
fingers,  faster  this  time,  and  as  it  were  more  firmly. 

Suddenly  he  sprang  up.  "They  ought  to  fini.^h  that  field 
to-day — I  must  see  they  don't  stop  work  before  it's  done." 

He  left  the  room  and  hurried  across  the  courtyard. 

Olof  rose  and  followed  his  brother  to  the  door,  watching 
him  as  he  strode  along,  with  head  bowed  forward  a  little 
and  arms  swinging  briskly  at  his  sides. 

"Each  works  best  in  his  own  way,"  he  said  to  himself, 
smiling  affectionately  at  the  thought.  "And  maybe  his 
way's  like  to  be  better  for  Koskela  than  they  ever  thought." 

Olof  turned  off  from  the  main  road  down  a  little  forest 
track;  he  carried  an  axe  on  his  shoulder. 

An  autumn  morning,  solemn  and  still.  The  night  had 
been  cold,  the  morning  air  was  so  fresh  and  light  it  almost 
lifted  one  from  the  ground — it  seemed  almost  superfluous 
to  tread  at  all. 

A  strange  feeling  had  come  upon  Olof  as  he  started  out. 


174   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

Between  the  hedge-stakes  on  either  side  of  the  road  hung 
bridges  of  the  spider's  work — netted  and  plaited  and  woven 
with  marvellous  art,  and  here  and  there  a  perfect  web,  the 
spider's  masterpiece,  hung  like  a  wheel  of  tiny  threads. 
Then  as  the  sun  came  up,  thread  and  cable  caught  its  rays, 
till  the  road  seemed  lined  with  long  festoons  of  silver,  and 
decked  at  intervals  with  silver  shields. 

In  the  forest,  too,  it  was  the  same — the  path  lined  with 
silver  hangings  on  either  side,  and  webs  of  silver  here  and 
there  along  the  way. 

"Spiders  bring  luck,  so  they  say,"  thought  Olof.  "Well, 
at  any  rate,  they're  showing  me  the  road  this  morning." 

And  he  strode  on  briskly,  eager  to  begin. 

"To-day's  the  test,"  he  thought.  "All  depends  on  how  I 
manage  now.  If  it  goes  well,  then  I  can  do  what  I  will. 
But  if  I've  lost  my  strength  and  ^vill  these  years  between, 
then — why,  I  don't  know  where  to  turn." 

Eagerly,  impatiently,  he  hurried  on,  trembling  with  ex- 
pectation, and  sweating  at  the  brow. 

"Maybe  I'm  taking  it  too  seriously,"  he  thought  again. 
"But,  no — it  is  life  or  death  to  me,  this.  And  I  don't  know 
yet  what  I  can  do — it  may  go  either  way.  .  .  ." 

He  swung  the  axe  in  a  \\dde  circle  from  the  shoulder,  held 
it  out  at  arm's  length,  then  straight  above  his  head,  and 
swung  it  to  either  side.  It  weighed  as  lightly  as  a  leaf, 
and  he  felt  a  childish  delight — as  if  he  had  already  passed 
the  first  test. 

He  reached  the  place  at  last — a  hillside  covered  with  tall, 
straight-stemmed  fir  and  pine.  He  flung  down  coat  and 
hat,  never  heeding  where,  glanced  up  along  the  stem  he  had 


THE  HOUSE  BUILDING  175 

chosen,  then  the  axe  was  lifted,  and  the  steel  sank  deep 
into  the  red  wood — it  was  his  first  stroke  in  his  native  forest 
after  six  years'  absence. 

The  forest  answered  with  a  ringing  echo  from  three  sides, 
so  loud  and  strong  that  Olof  checked  his  second  stroke  in 
mid-air,  and  turned  in  wonder  to  see  who  was  there. 

And  the  trees  faced  him  with  lifted  head  and  untroubled 
brjw,  without  nod  or  smile,  but  with  the  greeting  of  stern 
men  bidding  welcome. 

"Hei !"  Olof  answered  with  a  stroke  of  the  axe. 

And  so  they  talked  together,  in  question  and  answer  and 
dispute.  .  .  . 

"What  am  I  working  out  here  all  alone  for?"  said  Olof. 
"Why,  'tis  this  way  .  .  ."  And  with  the  red-brown  fir  chips 
flying  all  around  him,  he  told  them  the  story. 

"So  that's  it?  Well,  good  luck  to  you,"  answered  the  trees, 
and  fell,  one  after  another,  till  the  earth  rang  and  the  echoes 
answered  far  through  the  forest. 

Olof  felt  himself  aglow  with  an  inward  fire  that  flamed 
the  more  as  he  gave  it  way  in  ringing  strokes  of  the  axe. 
He  counted  it  a  point  of  honour  to  strip  each  branch  off 
clean  at  a  single  blow,  be  it  never  so  thick.  .  .  .  And  the 
more  he  worked  the  happier  he  grew. 

He  was  trj'ing  to  win  back  the  years  in  which  he  had  never 
held  an  axe. 

By  noon  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  clearing  already. 

"Well,  how  does  it  feel?"  asked  the  trees,  as  he  sat  down, 
with  his  jacket  slung  over  his  shoulders,  hastily  eating  the 
meal  he  had  brought  with  him. 

"None  so  bad — hope  for  the  best,"  he  answered. 


176   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

Again  the  axe  flashed,  the  branches  shivered,  and  the 
earth  rang.  "Bit  crooked,  that  one,"  said  Olof  to  himself; 
"but  I  can  use  it  all  the  same — do  for  a  piece  between  the 
windows." 

"Well,  you  know  best,"  said  the  trees.  "But  how  many 
windows  are  you  going  to  have — and  how  many  rooms? 
You  haven't  told  us  that  yet." 

"Two  rooms,  no  more — but  two  big  ones."  And  Olof  told 
them  all  his  plans  for  doors  and  windows  and  stoves,  and 
an  attic  above  the  entrance — he  had  thought  it  all  out  be- 
forehand. 

"Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  But  where  are  you  going  to  build?" 

"On  the  little  hill  beside  Isosuo  marsh — that's  where  I 
thought." 

"Isosuo  marsh?"  cried  the  trees,  looking  in  wonder  first 
at  one  another  and  then  at  Olof  himself.  Then  they  smiled 
triumphantly. 

"Bravo!"  they  cried  in  chorus.  "Bravo,  and  good  luck 
go  with  your  building,  and  prosperity  roof  over  all!  'Tis 
good  to  see  there's  some  that  still  dare  begin  life  for  them- 
selves in  the  forest." 

"  Tis  that  I'm  hoping  to  do — that  and  no  more." 

"But  what  do  folk  say  to  it?  Don't  they  think  you're 
mad?" 

"They  call  me  nothing  as  yet,  for  I've  not  told  any  of 
what  I'm  doing." 

"Just  as  well,  perhaps,"  said  the  trees. 

And  they  fell  to  talking  of  Isosuo,  of  drains  and  ditching, 
the  nature  of  the  soil,  and  all  that  Olof  would  have  to  do. 

And  the  axe  sang,  and  the  chips  flew,  and  the  woods  gave 
echo,  and  the  talk  went  on.    And  the  day  came  so  quickly  to 


THE  HOUSE  BUILDING  177 

an  end  that  Olof  started  to  find  how  it  was  already  growing 
dark.  "Well,  and  what  do  you  say  now?"  asked  the  trees 
expectantly. 

Olof  stepped  from  stem  to  stem,  counting  the  fallen. 
There  were  forty  in  all — and  he  laughed. 

"I  shall  be  here  again  to-morrow,  anyhow,"  he  said  gaily. 

"If  you  come  to-morrow,  then  you  will  come  again  till  it's 
done,"  said  the  trees.     "Come,  and  be  welcome!" 

Olof  walked  home  whistling  cheerfully;  he  felt  as  if  the 
house  were  already  built  up  round  him.  It  was  a  great  thing, 
enough  to  take  up  all  his  thoughts,  and  strong  enough  in 
itself  to  strengthen  him  anew. 


/ 

WAYS  THAT  MEET 

"HlRVIYOKI,    KyLANPAA,    28/9/97. 

KYLLIKKI, — You  will  be  surpristd,  no  doubt,  to 
luar  from  me  again  after  so  many  years.  I  am 
not  sure  of  your  address,  and  do  not  even  know 
if  you  are  still  'Kyllikki,'  or  possibly  someone  with  another 
name  that  I  do  not  know.  I  am  too  proud  to  ask  news  of 
you  from  any  but  yourself. 

"And  now  to  what  I  have  to  say.  I  have  never  been  able 
to  free  myself  from  you  quite,  however  much  I  wished. 
I  have  tried  to  forget  you,  to  wipe  aw^ty  all  trace  of  you 
from  my  soul,  but  in  spite  of  ever>lhing  you  have  followed 
me  from  place  to  place,  year  after  year,  and  now,  just 
lately,  you  have  been  ever  before  my  eyes.  Was  it  your 
friendship  that  followed  me  so,  or  my  own  guilty  conscience 
— or  perhaps  my  better  self  that  has  been  longing  for  you, 
and  silently  calling  for  you,  though  I  tried  to  stifle  the 
voice  ? 

"I  do  not  know.  I  only  know  that  my  years  of  wandering 
are  over  now,  and  I  have  come  to  settle  down  in  my  own 
place.  I  may  freely  confess  tliat  I  was  wearj'  and  broken 
down,  worn  out  and  hopeless,  when  I  came  home — to  see  my 
mother  for  the  last  time,  and  follow  her  to  the  grave.  And 
I  cannot  say,  even  now,  that  I  am  much  better,  though  per- 
haps a  little.  I  can  feel  something  in  me  that  seems  to 
grow,  something  tliat  gives  me  hope.     So  perhaps  it  is  not 

altogether  lost. 

178 


WAYS  THAT  MEET  1T9 

"I  am  building  mj-self  a  house,  and  have  other  plans  of 
a  like  sort.  But  there  is  one  thing  I  miss,  and  the  lack  of 
it  grows  stronger  every  day:  a  friend  and  comrade,  one  that 
I  could  respect  and  trust  entirely.  Not  one  to  share  my  good 
fortune,  but  one  to  be  with  me  in  toil  and  want. 

"Kyllikki,  you  can  never  guess  how  I  have  suffered  in 
doubt  and  questioning  of  late.  Have  I  any  right  at  all  to 
hope  for  comradeship?  Could  I  promise  anything  to  any- 
one? And  if  so — to  whom?  .  .  .  Kyllikki,  you  know  me 
well  enough  to  understand  what  I  mean.  It  is  no  light  ques- 
tion, and  no  easy  one  to  answer. 

"As  far  as  I  myself  am  concerned,  I  believe  I  see  my  way 
dear.  And  therefore  I  ask  you — will  you  venture  out  upon 
the  water  with  me  once  more — not  the  mere  crossing  of  a  little 
stream,  but  for  a  voyage  that  may  lead  we  know  not  where? 
I  cannot  be  sure  that  we  should  ever  reach  safely  to  land, 
only  tliat  if  your  hand  is  still  free  to  give,  and  you  are 
willing,  and  can  trust  me  enough  to  offer  it,  then  I  will  never 
let  go,  whatever  may  come. 

"And  one  thing  more — could  a  daughter  of  Moisio  venture 
to  share  the  lot  of  a  poor  settler?  I  can  offer  nothing  more, 
and  would  not  if  I  could.  If  she  will,  then  I  can  dare 
anything. 

"Again — would  you  unsh  to  join  your  life  with  mine?  Or 
do  you  despise  me,  perhaps?  I  will  not  try  to  defend  myself, 
and  it  would  be  useless  in  any  case,  for  I  know  that  little 
matters  would  not  influence  your  decision;  all  must  rest  on 
what  you  think  of  me  as  a  whole,  and  that  is  fixed  already. 

"One  tiling  most  of  all — let  there  be  no  question  of  pity 
or  giving  out  of  charity.  I  fancy  neither  of  us  would  ever 
give  or  take  in  that  way,  but   I  have  heard  say  that  pity 


180   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

counts  for  much  in  a  woman's  heart.  Myself,  I  do  not  think 
pity  can  go  far,  if  the  earlier  feeling  is  once  dead.  And  you 
know  best  yourself  whether  that  is  so. 

*'Is  your  father  still  alive?  And  does  he  still  think  as 
before?  But  it  makes  no  difference  now.  Once  we  are 
agreed,  ten  fathers  could  make  no  difference.  I  feel  now 
that  I  can  do  what  I  will. 

"And  that  is  all  for  now,  Kyllikki.  You  know  how 
anxiously  I  wait  to  hear  from  you — your  answer  means  very 
much  to  me.  But  I  know  it  will  be  clear  and  true,  which- 
ever way  it  may  be.  Olof. 

"My  address  is,  Olof  Koskela,  as  above." 

"KoHisEVA,  2  Oct.  1897. 

"Olof, — Your  letter  found  me.  Kyllikki  is  unchanged — 
and  you,  I  see,  are  much  as  I  had  thought  you  would  be. 
Proud  and  exacting  as  ever,  though  not  perhaps  in  quite  the 
same  way.  And  well  it  is  so,  for  if  you  had  seemed  other- 
wise I  should  have  suspected  at  once. 

"Yes,  I  will  venture.  I  am  ready  to  venture  anything.  I 
did  not  even  need  to  think  it  over;  I  had  decided  long  since, 
and  have  not  changed.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  tell  you  that 
I  knew  more  of  you  than  you  thought.  I  have  followed 
your  doings  and  your  movements  from  a  distance,  until  you 
came  home,  and  determined  to  wait  for  you  till  it  was  past 
hoping  for.  I  feel  I  ought  to  tell  you  this  at  once,  that  you 
may  know  I  am  not  building  up  fair  hopes  on  no  founda- 
tion, but  know  what  I  am  doing,  and  what  I  can  expect. 

"You  need  not  fear  pity  from  me,  Olof.  I  believe  in  fate, 
and  in  life  as  a  thing  with  some  meaning.  I  have  often 
wondered,  these  last  few  years,  if  there  could  be  any  mean- 


WAYS  THAT  MEET  181 

ing  in  my  life,  and  why  fate  had  brought  us  so  strangely 
together.  Was  it  only  to  make  us  suffer?  I  came  at  last  to 
the  conclusion  that  if  there  were  any  meaning  in  my  life, 
it  must  be  with  you;  and  if  fate  had  any  plan  at  all,  it  must 
be  that  you  should  come  back  to  me  some  day,  even  though 
the  way  were  hard.  And  you  came,  came  with  the  very  word 
I  had  been  waiting  to  hear  from  your  lips  for  years — that 
you  had  need  of  me!  All  is  easy  after  that;  no  need  to 
doubt  or  hesitate.     I  can  answer  at  once :  I  am  ready. 

"I  do  not  think,  or  hope,  that  our  way  will  be  strewn 
with  roses.  But  it  is  right,  I  feel  that;  and  in  time  we  shall 
reach  our  goal. 

"Come,  Olof,  come  soon.  Four  years  I  have  waited — four 
years  of  longing,  all  my  life's  longing. — Your 

"Water-Witch. 

"P.  S. — Father  is  the  same,  but  what  you  say  about  that 
is  what  I  say  myself. 

"One  thing  I  would  ask  you — let  me  see  you  alone  first, 
before  you  meet  my  father,  I  could  not  bear  to  meet  again 
after  all  these  years  in  that  way.  Come  to  our  old  meeting- 
place  beforehand,  if  you  can,  and  let  me  know  what  day  and 

time  you  will  be  there. 

"Kyllikki." 


MOISIO 

OLOF    walked    up    the   steps   to   the   homestead    at 
Moisio. 
A  trifle  pale,  perhaps,  but  confident,  ready  to 
meet   whatever  might  chance,   and   determined  to  gain   his 
end. 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  There  were  two  in  the 
room:  an  old  man  with  bushy  brows — who,  unaware  of  the 
visitor's  approach,  was  on  the  point  of  going  out  himself — 
and  a  girl.  She  was  waiting  anxiously,  and  as  the  door 
opened,  her  heart  beat  as  if  it  would  leap  from  her  breast 

All  three  stood  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"Good-day  to  you,"  said  Olof  respectfully  to  the  old  man. 

No  one  answered.  Olof  marked  how  the  dark  brows  drew 
together  like  two  murky   storm-clouds. 

"Good-day,"  came  the  answer  at  last,  sharp  and  hard — 
as  if  tlie  speaker  were  unwilling  to  deny  a  certain  courtesy, 
even  to  the  most  unwelcome  guest,  in  his  own  house. 

Having  said  so  much,  however,  he  felt  no  further  obliga- 
tion,  and  went  on   sternly: 

"I  told  you  last  time  that  I  did  not  wish  to  see  you  again. 
What  brings  you  here  now?" 

The  words  fell  like  strokes  of  an  axe;  the  girl  turned  pale, 
and  leaned  against  the  wall. 

"This,"  said  Olof  calmly.     "When  I  spoke  to  you  last 

time,  matters  did  not  pass  off  as  they  should.     I  beg  your 

182 


MOISIO  183 

forgiveness  for  that.  And  now  I  have  come  to  ask  again 
for  your  daughter's  hand." 

"You — a  wastrel  .  .  .!"  The  old  man's  voice  trembled 
with  anger. 

"I  have  been.    But  let  us  talk  calmly,  if  you  please." 

"Lumberman!"  The  word  was  flung  out  with  a  bitter- 
ness and  contempt  that  cut  like  a  knife. 

A  dark  flush  rose  to  Olof's  cheek;  he  was  hard  put  to  it 
already  to  control  himself. 

"True,"  he  said,  slowly  and  with  emphasis.  "I  have  been 
a  lumberman.  There  are  clodhoppers  enough  to  ditch  and 
plough,  but  good  lumbermen  are  none  so  easy  to  find." 

The  old  man  raised  his  eyebrows,  then  lowered  them  again 
with  an  expression  as  of  a  beast  about  to  spring. 

"Go!"  he  thundered. 

A  deep  silence  followed.  Olof  bit  his  lip,  then  drawing 
himself  up  defiantly,  he  poured  out  a  flood  of  words. 

"You — you  drove  me  out  from  here  once  before,  and  I 
went  at  your  bidding.  Now,  I  move  not  a  step  till  we  have 
fought  this  out  between  us.  I  came  to  you  to-day  with  all 
respect — yes,  and  asked  your  pardon  for  last  time,  though 
even  now  I  do  not  know  which  of  us  two  was  more  in  the 
wrong.  And  I  am  going  now,  but  not  at  your  bidding — 
and  not  alone.  I  have  come  to  ask  for  what  is  mine  by 
right — and  I  would  do  the  same  if  she  were  a  star  in  the 
skies  of  heaven!" 

The  old  man  was  leaning  forward  with  clenched  fists; 
without  a  word  he  rushed  towards  the  door. 

Olof's  mind  was  made  up  on  the  instant — he  would  take 
tlie  man  by  the  arms  and  set  him  down  and  bid  him  talk 


184   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

over  matters  quietly  and  decently,  as  became  his  age.  He 
stepped   forward  resolutely. 

"Father!"  The  girl  sprang  forward  hastily  between  them. 
"Father — I  ...  it  is  true.     I  am  his  by  right!" 

The  words  came  like  a  blow  from  behind — the  father 
turned  and  looked  long  at  the  girl. 

"You  .  .  .1"  he  cried,  astounded.  "You  say — you  are 
his  by  right?  Ho!  And  perhaps  you've  been  waiting  for 
him,  then,  all  these  years,  when  you  said  'No'  to  one  after 
another?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  calmly.  "And  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  be  his  wife." 

The  old  man  took  a  step  towards  her. 

"Made  up  your  mind,  have  you  .  ,  .?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl  gently;  "and  I  want  you,  father,  to 
consent." 

"But  suppose  I've  made  up  my  mind?"  The  old  man 
drew  himself  up  and  stood  between  them,  straight  as  a  fir 
stem.  "And  this  I  say:  My  daughter's  not  for  any  wander- 
ing lumberman  that  has  the  impudence  to  ask." 

He  spoke  with  firmness  and  authority — matters  seemed 
hopelessly  at  a  deadlock.  There  was  a  moment  of  tense 
silence.  Kyllikki  bowed  her  head,  then  slowly  she  looked 
up  and  faced  her  father,  steadily,  confidently — Olof  noticed 
with  surprise  how  the  two  in  that  moment  were  alike.  Ex- 
pression and  attitude  were  the  same  in  both. 

"And  if  she  chooses  to  give  herself — what  then?" 

The  old  man's  eyes  flashed. 

"Then — why,  she  can  go  as  his  mistress,  if  she  please, 
but  not  as  my  daughter!" 

Silence  again.    Kyllikki  flushed  angrily;  Olof  was  hardly 


MOISIO  185 

able  to  restrain  himself.  But  he  realised  that  the  two  must 
be  left  to  themselves  for  what  concerned  themselves — he 
could  only  make  matters  worse. 

"Choose,"  said  her  fatlier,  coldly  and  with  dignity.  "And 
make  haste  about  it — the  fellow  here  is  waiting.  But  mark 
this,"  he  added  with  a  sneer,  as  confident  of  victory:  "// 
you  go,  you  go  at  once.  And  you  take  with  you  nothing — 
not  a  rag  nor  stitch  that  was  my  daughter's.  You  go  .  .  . 
dressed  as  you  came.     You  understand!" 

The  two  stood  amazed  at  first,  hardly  comprehending. 
Then,  as  the  meaning  of  his  words  dawned  on  them,  in  its 
fearful  cruelty,  they  looked  at  him  aghast. 

"Father  ...  is  that  your  last  word?"  asked  the  girl 
earnestly. 

"Yes!" 

Pale  and  red  by  turns,  she  stood  hardly  seeming  to  breathe. 

The  old  man's  lips  curved  in  a  scornful  smile.  Olof  stood 
waiting  his  sentence,  unable  to  think  or  feel. 

Then  slowly  the  girl  raised  her  head,  seeming  to  tower 
over  her  surroundings.  She  raised  her  hands  without  a 
tremor,  slipped  the  fastenings  of  her  blouse,  and  almost  be- 
fore they  could  realise  what  she  was  doing,  she  stood  bare- 
armed,  bare-throated  before  them. 

The  smile  faded  from  the  old  man's  lips.  Olof's  heart 
beat  with  a  wild  delight — he  felt  an  impulse  to  take  the 
girl  in  his  arms  and  carry  her  off. 

Calmly  she  went  on — unhooked  her  skirt  and  let  it  slip 
to  the  floor  beside  her  blouse. 

The  old  man's  face  was  ashy  pale.  Olof  turned  his  back 
in  fury  and  disgust. 


186  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD  RED  FLOWER 

But  the  girl  never  flinched.  Quietly  she  loosened  the 
strings  of  her  petticoat.  .  .  . 

"Enough!"  The  old  man's  voice  was  like  a  cry  from 
the  underworld. 

Olof  turned — the  girl  looked  inquiringly  at  him. 

"Go!  Take  her— be  off  with  you  l^oth!"  cried  her  father, 
beyond  himself.  "Ay,  you're  hard,"  he  went  on,  to  the 
girl,  "hard  and  obstinate  as  the  rest  of  our  blood  ever  were, 
too  hard  for  your  woman's  clothes!  And  as  for  you,  I 
hope  you  can  keep  a  wife  now  you've  got  her.  Of  all  the 
cursed  .  .  ." 

The  young  pair  flushed,  but  they  stood  still,  unable  to 
move. 

"Get  your  things  on,"  said  the  old  man  impatiently.  "And 
you — sit  down." 

A  sudden  wave  of  shame  came  over  the  girl;  snatching  up 
her  clothes,  she  fled  into  the  next  room. 

The  master  of  Moisio  walked  slowly  to  the  window  and 
sat  down  heavily,  a  beaten  man.  Olof  felt  a  thrill  of  pity 
for  the  old  man. 

They  sat  for  a  few  moments  in  silence;  then  Kyllikki 
entered  once  more,  blushing  still,  glanced  hastily  at  Olof, 
and  sat  down,  watching  her  father's  face. 

At  last  the  old  man  turned.  The  scene  had  left  its  mark 
on  him,  but  there  was  dignity  still  in  his  glance  as  he  looked 
Olof   full   in  the   face. 

"You've  made  yourself  my  son-in-law,''  he  said,  "though 
'twas  no  wish  of  mine  it  should  be  so.  But  we  may  as  well 
start  with  a  dear  understanding.  'Tis  our  way  here  to 
say  what's  to  be  said  at  once,  or  give  a  blow  where  it's 
needed — and  have  done  with  it." 


MOISIO  187 

"  'Tis  no  bad  way,"  said  Olof,  hardly  knowing  what  he 
was  saying.     "My  father's  way  was  much  the  same." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  "We've  one  or  two  things 
to  talk  over. now,"  went  on  the  old  man.  "I  should  like  to 
hear,  to  begin  with,  what  you're  thinking  of  doing.  Wander- 
ing about  as  before,  maybe?" 

"No.  I've  done  with  tliat.  I've  settled  down  in  my  ovm 
place — I'm  building  a  house  there,"  answered  Olof. 

"H'm.  Building  a  house,  are  you?  I  could  find  you  a 
house  here,  for  that  matter.  I  dare  say  you  know  I've  no 
son  to  come  after  me.    And  I'm  an  old  man  now." 

Olof  looked  wonderingly  at  him.  "I  understand  now,"  he 
said  slowly,  "what  you  meant  before.  And  I  thank  you  for 
your  kindness.  But  it's  this  way  with  me  now — I  can't 
live  in  another  man's  house;  I  must  make  a  place  for  myself, 
and  work  for  myself.  I  was  to  have  had  the  farm  at  home, 
but  I  couldn't  take  it." 

"A  farm?"  cried  the  old  man,  rising  to  his  feet.  "Where 
— where  do  you  come  from,  then?" 

"From  Kylanpaa  in  Hirviyoki — I  don't  know  if  you've 
heard  of  the  place." 

"I  have  been  there,  years  ago,"  said  the  old  man  in  a 
kindlier  tone,  taking  a  step  towards  him.  ".^nd  what's  the 
name  of  your  place  there?"  he  asked. 

"Koskela." 

"Koskela?    That's  a  big  place." 

"Why,  'tis  big  enough,"  said  Olof. 

"And  why  didn't  you  say  that  before — when  you  were 
here  last?"  said  the  old  man  sharply.  "  'Twould  have 
been  better  for  both  if  you  had." 

Olof  flushed  slightly.     "I  never  tliought  to  take  a  wife 


188  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

Imt  in  my  ovm  name,"  he  answered — "for  myself,  and  what 
I  might  be  wortli  by  myself." 

"Yes,  that's  your  way,"  said  the  old  man,  scanning  him 
critically.     "I  see  it  now." 

He  glanced  out  of  the  window  and  seemed  to  catch  sight 
of  something.  "Don't  mind  what's  past,"  he  said  kindly. 
"There's  the  horses  coming  from  the  smith's.  I  must  look 
to  them  a  minute.  Lll  be  back  again  .  .  ."  And  he  strode 
out. 

The  two  that  remained  felt  as  if  the  calm  of  a  bright 
Sunday  morning  filled  the  room  after  a  stormy  night. 

Blushingly  the  girl  hurried  across  to  her  lover,  who  came 
towards  her;  she  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  whis- 
pered : 

"Olof,  I  have  never  really  known  you  until  now!" 

"And  I,"  he  answered,  "have  never  kno\Mi  you  till  to- 
day." 


THE  BROKEN   STRING 

THE  dark  of  an  autumn  evening  was  abroad.     It 
marched  along  the  roads,  stole  over  the  meadows, 
and   sat   brooding  in   the   forest;    the   shimmering 
waterways  marked  its  track. 

But  at  Moisio  all  the  homestead  was  ablaze  with  light; 
every  window  shed  its  bright  stream  into  tlie  night,  as  if 
from  a  single  fire  within. 

And  from  within  came  a  constant  sound  of  many  voices, 
as  of  men  sitting  round  the  hearth  relating  manifold  adven- 
tures. Outside,  all  round  the  house,  were  voices  too,  loud 
and  low,  soft  and  harsh,  with  an  undertone  of  whispering  in 
corners,  and  footsteps  moving  here  and  there.  All  that  there 
was  of  life  and  light  and  sound  in  Kohiseva  seemed  gathered 
this  night  at  Moisio. 

The  fiddler  played  his  hardest,  the  floor  creaked,  and  the 
walls  quivered  to  the  tramp  of  many  feet;  a  stream  of  fig- 
ures passed  continuously  before  the  windows. 

The  wedding  had  taken  place  that  afternoon.  Then  came 
feasting  and  dancing — and  the  guests  were  dancing  still, 
though  it  was  close  on  midnight. 

The  bridegroom  was  a  fine  upstanding  fellow,  and  the 
bride  a  wordiy  mate — as  stately  a  pair  as  any  had  seen. 
All  the  neighbourhood  agreed  in  this — and  all  had  seen  the 
couple,  though  not  all  had  been  bidden  to  the  feast.  A 
whisper  had   been  passed   among   the   crowd   without,   fol- 

189 


190   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

lowed  by  a  shout  from  all,  demanding  to  see  the  bride  and 
bridegroom.  And  when  the  pair  came  out  and  stood  in  the 
porch,  with  their  following  behind,  the  onlookers  greeted 
them  with  shouts  and  cheers — just  as  at  fine  folk's  wed- 
dings in  the  great  cities,  declared  those  who  knew. 

The  bridegroom  was  happy — and  well  he  might  be,  with 
such  a  bride.  And  the  bride,  too,  was  happy — as  well  she 
might  be  after  waiting  all  those  years.  All  knew  the  story 
— the  first  strange  wooing,  with  the  desperate  venture  do\vn 
the  rapids,  and  the  lover's  Song  of  the  Blood-Red  Flower 
as  he  went  away.  And  more  was  whispered  about — frag- 
mentary tales  of  the  bridegroom's  adventurous  life  and  the 
trials  of  the  girl  who  waited  for  him  to  return;  rumour  had 
gathered  what  was  known,  and  popular  fancy  had  added 
thereto  at  will.  The  stories  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth 
among  tliose  outside,  and  even  among  the  guests  within, 
reaching  almost  to  tlie  bridal  pair  tlaemselves.  There  was 
a  touch  of  something  legendary',  heroic,  about  it  all,  that 
shed  a  halo  of  romance  even  upon  old  Moisio's  grey  head. 

Again  they  call  for  bridegroom  and  bride — the  hero  and 
heroine  of  the  storj' — manly  courage  and  womanly  faith- 
fulness personified;  a  sight  to  look  on  again  and  again. 
Again  the  light  streamed  out  into  the  porch,  and  again  the 
shouts  and  cheers  went  up,  and  one  or  two  of  the  more 
curious  and  venturesome  slipped  into  the  house  unbidden 
in  the  press. 

It  was  a  bright  and  festive  scene  \Nathin.  The  roof-beams 
were  draped  with  white,  and  the  hangings  glittered  like 
newly-fallen  snow  in  the  morning  sunlight.  The  walls, 
too,  were  draped,  and  decked  ^\ith  ^\Teaths  and  garlands; 


THE  BROKEN  STRING  191 

here  and  there  a  bunch  of  fresh  juniper  tvvigs  seeming  to 
speak  of  newly-arisen  life. 

The  dancing  ceased  for  a  moment;  the  guests  adjourned 
to  the  well-furnished  tables  in  an  adjoining  room — the  women 
following  the  bride,  the  men  by  themselves,  with  the  bride- 
groom and  old  Moisio  himself.  Trays  clattered,  glasses 
rang,  a  hum  of  gay  voices  filled  the  room,  and  all  eyes  shone 
with  a  festive  gleam. 

Then  the  fiddler  tuned  up  once  more,  and  tlie  guests 
streamed  out  back  into  the  hall.  The  men  stayed  a  moment 
to  finish  their  glasses,  and  followed  after. 

The  bridegroom  came  last.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him 
to  fetch  something  for  the  fiddler,  and  he  turned  back.  Hav- 
ing found  what  he  wanted,  he  was  leaving  the  room,  when 
a  stranger  barred  his  way. 

Olof  started;  the  man  had  come  suddenly  and  silently  as 
a  ghost.  There  was  something  uncanny  about  him  as  he 
stood  there — a  short,  heavily-built  fellow,  standing  without 
a  word,  one  hand  in  his  trousers  pocket,  a  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
and  a  red  rosette,  such  as  peasants  wear  on  holidays,  in 
the  buttonhole  of  what  was  evidently  his  best  coat.  There 
he  stood,  gazing  fixedly  at  Olof,  with  a  curious  glitter  in  his 
eyes. 

'Tve  a  word  to  say  to  the  bridegroom,  if  so  be  he's  time 
to  hear,"  said  the  man  in  a  hoarse  voice,  still  keeping  the 
cigar  between   his  teeth. 

"Why  .  .  .  here  I  am,  if  you  want  me,"  said  Olof,  "though 
I  don't  know  who  you  are.  .  .  ." 

"No,"  said  the  man,  "you  don't  know  who  I  am.     And 


192  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

yet  we're  sort  of  related — yes,  that's  the  word — for  all  we've 
never  met  before." 

He  took  a  step  forward. 

"  'Tis  your  wedding  night — and  I've  come  to  wish  you 
joy  of  it.  You've  played  with  many  a  woman's  heart  in  your 
time,  and  driven  more  than  one  good  lad  to  despair — maybe 
'twill  do  you  good  to  learn  .  .  ." 

"What?"  cried  Olof,  with  sudden  fury.  "Out  with  it, 
man!" 

The  fellow's  glassy  eyes  seemed  to  be  straining  forward, 
the  pupils  were  glittering  points  of  light. 

"You,  that  have  worked  your  will  on  any  and  all  as  it 
pleased  you — robbed  your  betters  of  all  they  had  and  cared 
for — 'twill  do  you  good,  maybe,  to  know  that  .  .  .  Do  you 
think  you're  taking  an  innocent  girl  for  your  bride?" 

The  man  stood  watching  the  effect  of  his  words.  He  saw 
Olof's  face  darken,  his  nostrils  expand  and  quiver.  Saw  him 
tremble  from  head  to  foot,  like  a  tree  about  to  fall,  waiting 
but  for  the  last  stroke  of  the  axe.  Well,  he  should  have 
it.  .  .  . 

"Well — how  does  it  feel?"  He  bowed  mockingly,  and 
went  on  with  a  sneer:  "Wish  you  joy  .  .  .  I've  more  reason, 
perhaps,  than  the  others,  seeing  we're  partners,  so  to  speak, 
in  the  same  .  .  ." 

"Liar — devil — coward!"  Olof's  rage  broke  loose.  A  step 
forward,  almost  a  spring,  and  with  the  strength  of  fury  he 
seized  the  man  by  his  coat  with  both  hands  and  Hfted  him 
from  the  floor. 

"Say  your  prayers!"  hissed  Olof  between  his  teeth,  still 
holding  the  man  in  mid-air,  the  shirt-front  crushing  under 
his  grip.    The  man  struggled  helplessly  once  or  twice,  then 


THE  BROKEN  STRING  193 

hung  limp;  the  cigar  fell  from  his  mouth,  and  Olof  felt  the 
body  a  dead  weight  in  his  hands. 

"I  .  .  .  I've  been  drinking,"  he  gasped — "drinking  .  .  . 
don't  know  what  I've  been  saying.  .  .  ."  The  words  bub- 
bled pitifully  from  the  pale  lips,  like  the  last  drops  from 
an  empty  barrel. 

"Well  for  you!"  Olof  set  the  man  down  and  loosed  his 
hold.     "Or  I'd  .  .  .  Huh!     Get  out  of  this— d'you  hear?" 

The  man  staggered,  looking  this  way  and  that,  then 
turned  and  stole  from  the  room  without  a  word. 

Olof  stood  alone.  His  brain  was  in  a  whirl,  dazzling  lights 
tloated  before  his  eyes. 

"It  must  be  true!  No  one  would  ever  dare  unless  .  .  ." 
There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind — it  was  only  too  natural 
that  it  should  be  so.  The  retribution  he  had  feared  so 
long — it  had  come  at  last,  and  ruined  all  in  a  moment. 

The  fiddler  was  playing  louder  than  before;  the  whole 
house  shook — they  were  dancing  again.  To  Olof  the  music 
seemed  like  a  mighty  peal  of  scornful  laughter,  as  if  the 
host  of  people  there  were  laughing  and  dancing  for  joy 
at  his  shame. 

"Make  an  end — make  an  end!"  he  cried  to  himself,  and 
he  rushed  from  the  room.  How  he  was  to  end  it  he  did 
not  know — only  that  this  was  unendurable — it  was  hell! 

Smiling  faces  greeted  Olof  as  he  appeared  in  the  door- 
way and  stood  a  moment,  unable  to  get  through  the  press. 
His  brain  cleared  a  little — after  all,  he  could  not  drive  the 
guests  from  the  house  like  a  madman  with  a  knife  in  his 
hand. 


194   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

They  stood  aside  to  let  him  pass,  and  he  slipped  round 
by  the  wall  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and  went  up 
to  the  fiddler. 

"Will  you  sell  it?"  he  whispered — "sell  your  fiddle? 
There's  a  man  wants  to  buy  it — he's  asked  me.  Never  mind 
about  the  price — say  what  you  like." 

"Why  ...  I  don't  know.  'Tis  an  old  friend,"  answered 
the  man,  playing  more  softly  as  he  spoke. 

"Will  you  sell  it?     At  your  own  price.     Yes  or  no?" 

"H'ni  .  .  .  well,  say  thirty  marks?" 

"Good!  The  man'U  be  here  directly.  And  now,  play  a 
polka — and  play  like  the  devil  himself,  as  if  you  were 
kissing  your  girl  for  tlie  last  time.  The  fastest  you've  ever 
played." 

The  fiddler  nodded. 

Olof  walked  up  to  a  young  girl  and  bowed.  The  fiddler 
broke  off,  and  struck  up  a  polka  at  such  a  furious  pace  that 
the  dancers  stopped  and  looked  at  one  another  in  surprise. 

But  Olof  went  off  in  wild  career  with  his  partner,  and 
several  other  pairs  followed.  These,  however,  soon  fell  out, 
and  all  stood  watching  the  bridegroom,  who  danced  like  a 
man  bewitched.  His  eyes  blazed,  a  strange  smile  played 
about  his  lips,  and  his  head  was  lifted  defiantly. 

The  onlookers  were  filled  with  admiration  and  wonder — 
never  had  they  seen  such  a  dance !  Olof  took  a  second  part- 
ner, then  a  third;  danced  a  couple  of  rounds  with  each,  and 
took  a  new.  He  did  not  lead  them  to  their  places  after, 
but  slipped  each  lightly,  bowed  to  another,  and  whirled  her 
off  at  the  same  furious  pace. 

"What's  come  over  him  now?"  whispered  the  guests. 


THE  BROKEN  STRING  195 

"He's  going  to  dance  with  them  all — for  the  last  time, 
it  seems." 

"Ay,  it  looks  like  it!"  And  they  laughed  and  watched 
the  extraordinary  scene — after  all,  it  would  have  been  strange 
if  something  out  of  the  common  had  not  happened  at  Olof's 
wedding. 

Once  more  Olof  set  his  partner  down  and  bowed  to  another. 
Formally  this  time,  as  if  with  emphasis:  it  was  Kyllikki  he 
had  chosen  now.  The  girl  stood  dismayed,  uneasy,  not  know- 
ing what  to  think. 

The  fiddler,  noting  who  was  the  latest  clioice,  pressed  his 
instrument  closer  under  his  chin,  and  put  his  whole  fire 
into  the  work.  The  music  swelled  and  sank,  the  bridal  pair 
danced  lightly  and  gracefully — a  sight  to  see.  Once,  twice, 
three  times,  four  times  round,  and  still  they  danced. 

Then  as  they  passed  the  fiddler  for  the  fifth  time,  the  music 
suddenly  stopped — Olof  had  snatched  the  instrument  with 
his  right  hand  as  he  passed,  and  next  moment  it  was  shiv- 
ered to  a  thousand  fragments  against  the  table.  A  single 
string  whined  painfully  as  it  broke. 

A  gasp  went  up  from  the  onlookers;  all  stared  in  amaze- 
ment at  tlie  pair.  Neither  showed  any"  sign  of  confusion; 
they  stood  easily,  as  if  the  whole  thing  were  a  prearranged 
conclusion. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  startled  anyone,"  said  Olof  gaily.  "But 
the  fiddle  that  has  played  my  youth  away — must  play  no 
more!      Good-night!" 

A  sigh  of  relief  and  admiration  passed  through  the  crowd. 
What  a  finish!  What  a  youth!  None  but  he  could  ever 
have   done   the    like. 

And  the  guests  laughed,  and  the  bridegroom  laughed,  and 


196    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

old  Moisio  himself  laughed  where  he  sat:  "Ay,  that's  the 
way!  Turn  your  back  on  the  rest  and  give  all  to  one — 
my  daughter's  worth  a  Uddle  at  least  1" 

But  the  bride  was  pale — as  it  might  have  been  one  Sunday 
evening  by  the  river,  when  she  sat  alone  on  the  bank,  watch- 
ing a  man  stride  hastily  away,  with  a  flush  of  anger  on  his 
cheek. 


THE  BRIDAL  CHAMBER 

f  FOOTSTEPS  approaching. 
A  man,  with  a  dark  fire  smouldering  in  his  eyes, 
entered  in — the  pale  bride  followed  him. 

The  man  walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  heavy 
strides,  biting  his  lip  and  frowning  angrily.  Suddenly  he 
stopped,  and  stood  by  the  table  against  the  farther  wall, 
with  a  cold,  piercing  glance  at  the  pale-faced  girl. 

She  had  been  standing  silent  and  thoughtful  by  the  win- 
dow— now  she  approached  him  with  hesitant  step. 

"Olof,"  she  murmured,  her  voice  quivering  with  tender 
anxiety — "Olof — dearest,  what  does  it  mean?" 

"Dearest?"  He  snapped  out  the  word  between  clenched 
teeth  like  the  rattle  of  hail  against  a  window-pane.  His 
voice  trembled  with  tears  and  laughter,  cutting  scorn  and  bit- 
terness.    He  grasped  her  roughly  by  the  shoulders. 

"Keep  away!"  he  cried,  boiling  with  rage,  and  thrust  her 
from  him  with  such  violence  that  she  stumbled  and  sank 
down  on  a  sofa. 

There  she  sat  in  the  same  position,  struck  helpless  by 
the  suddenness  of  the  blow.  Then  she  rose  and,  flushing 
slightly,  walked  resolutely  up  to  him  again. 

"Olof,  what  does  all  this  mean?"  she  asked.  There  was 
tenderness  still  in  her  voice,  but  beneath  it  a  steely  ring 
plain  to  be  heard. 

Olof  felt  his  blood  boiling  in  his  veins — that  she,  guilty 

197 


198   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

as  she  was,  should  dare  to  stand  there  with  uplifted  head, 
and  look  hira  calmly  in  the  face!  His  eye  fell  on  the  myrtle 
wreath  which  she  wore — emblem  of  bridal  purity — and  it 
seemed  to  mock  him  anew.  He  felt  an  almost  irresistible 
inij)ulse  to  fall  on  her  and  tear  her  in  pieces, 

"It  'means,"  he  cried,  stepping  threateningly  towards  her, 
"that  you  have  no  right  to  wear  that  wreath — that  you  are 
an  infamous  cheat!" 

And  with  a  violent  movement  he  tore  the  wreath  and  veil 
from  her  head,  and  trampled  them  underfoot,  till  the  wires 
of  the  framework  curled  like  serpents  on  the  floor.  "Liar — 
liar  and  h)pocrite!"  he  cried. 

Kyllikki  did  not  move;  she  stood  there  still  silent,  only 
the  red  flush  in  her  cheeks  deepened. 

Nothing  was  left  of  the  wreath  now  but  some  strands  of 
wire  and  a  few  loose  leaves — Olof  spurned  it  aside,  and 
the  veil  after  it.  Then  he  drew  himself  up,  and  looked  at 
Kyllikki  with  the  eyes  of  a  man  who  has  crushed  one  foe 
and  prepares  to  meet  another. 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what  all  this  means?" 
said  Kyllikki,  calmly  as  ever,  but  with  a  new  note  in  her 
voice  that  almost  amazed  herself. 

"Tell  you?  Ay,  by  Heaven.  If  I  had  my  pistol  here, 
I'd  answer  you  so  that  you  should  never  ask  again!" 

Kyllikki  shuddered — a  chill  sense  of  utter  helplessness 
came  over  her.  She  was  shamed  and  insulted,  her  bridal 
wreath  trampled  underfoot,  and  she  herself  here  alone  with 
a  man  who  raved  and  threatened  furiously.  She  looked  at 
him  earnestly,  as  if  trying  to  read  him  through.  And  she 
felt  that  here  was  indeed  something  great  and  terrible,  on 
which  her  future — tlieir  future — depended;    a  single  word 


THE  BRIDAL  CHAMBER  199 

or  gesture  on  her  part  might  be  fatal.  Suddenly  a  thought 
crossed  her  mind  and  the  blood  rushed  to  her  head.  .  .  . 
Could  he  dare?  .  .  .  Was  his  anger  greater  than  his  love? 

Swiftly  she  decided — now  or  never,  it  must  be  done,  or  all 
would  be  lost.  Stepping  across  to  a  chest,  she  opened  the 
lowest  drawer  and  felt  for  something  there  .  .  .  no  .  .  . 
and  she  tried  the  next.  A  moment  after,  she  rose  to  her  feet 
and  walked  firmly  over  to  where  Olof  stood. 

A  large,  old-fashioned  revolver  was  in  her  hand;  the  dark 
barrel  glinted  in  the  light  as  she  laid  it  on  the  table. 

''There  is  the  thing  you  wanted.  It  is  loaded.  Now, 
answer  me,  if  you  please." 

She  spoke  slowly,  putting  forth  all  her  strength  to  keep 
her  voice  from  trembling.  Then  stepping  back,  she  stood 
waiting,  her  face  pale,  her  eyes  fixed  on  Olof's  face. 

It  was  the  critical  moment.  To  Kyllikki  it  seemed  end- 
less, as  she  stood  there  stiffly,  dreading  with  every  breath 
lest  she  should  fall. 

Olof  stood  motionless,  staring  at  her  as  at  a  vision.  Once 
before  he  had  seen  her  thus — during  the  ordeal  with  her 
father.  A  stifling  fear  came  over  him  as  he  marked  the 
similarity. 

"What  do  you  mean — are  you  trying  to  drive  me  mad?" 
he  cried  in  a  choking  voice.  And  tearing  his  hair,  he 
rushed  violently  towards  the  door. 

Kyllikki  felt  the  blood  coursing  warmly  through  her  veins 
once  more. 

Olof  strode  furiously  up  and  down,  then  came  to  a  stand- 
still before  her.  His  rage  flamed  up  again,  and  he  set  him- 
self to  play  the  part  of  a  judge. 

"Defy  me,  would  you?"  he  shouted,  pale  with  anger.    "Do 


200   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD  RED  FLOWER 

you  know  what  you  arc?  A  liar,  a  perjured  hypccrite!  Do 
you  know  what  you  have  done?  You  have  cheated  mel 
You  have  ruined  my  wedding  night,  trampled  on  ray  hap- 
piness and  my  future — you  have  shamed  me  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world.  You  are  no  pure  and  innocent  girl,  but 
a  .  .  ." 

He  stopped,  hreathless.  and  stood  gasping  for  a  moment, 
then  went  on  brokenly:  "But  now  it  is  out.  Now  you  shall 
answer  for  it  all.  Do  you  know  a  fellow  who  was  here  to- 
night— a  wretched  little  worm  with  a  red  rosette  in  his 
coat?  You  know  who  I  mean  well  enough — deny  it  if  you 
dare!" 

"Yes,  I  know  him  well.     What  of  it?" 
"Ah,  you  know  him — yes.  .  .  ."     He  gave  a  hoarse,  ner- 
vous laugh.     "That  ghastly  little  abortion  came  to  me  to- 
night and  told  me.  .  .  ." 

He  stopped,  on  purpose  to  torture  her  the  more. 
"What  did  he  tell  you?"  asked  Kyllikki  breathlessly. 
"You  know  well  enough  .  .  .  that  you  had  given  him  long 
ago  ivhat  .should  have  been  mine  to-night!" 

He  stood  enjoying  the  effect  of  his  words:  Kyllikki  stag- 
gered as  if  struck — exactly  as  he  had  intended. 

The  girl  was  trembling  in  every  limb.  She  felt  a  loath- 
ing for  the  man  before  her — and  for  all  his  sex.  These 
men,  that  lied  about  women,  or  cried  out  about  what  was 
theirs  on  their  wedding  night,  raved  of  their  happiness,  de- 
manding purity  and  innocence  of  others,  but  not  of  them- 
selves .  .  .  she  felt  that  there  could  be  no  peace,  no  recon- 
ciliation between  them  now,  only  bitterness  and  the  ruin  of 
all  they  had  hoped  for  together. 

"And  what  then?'"  she  asked  coldly,  with  lifted  head. 


THE  BRIDAL  CHAMBER  201 

"What  then?"  cried  Olof  wildly.     "WTiat  .  .  ." 

"Yes.  Go  on.  That  was  only  one.  Are  there  no  more 
who  have  told  you  the  same  thing?" 

"More?     My  God — I  could  kill  you  now!" 

"Dol"  She  faced  him  defiantly,  and  went  on  with  icy 
calm:  "And  how  many  girls  are  there  who  can  say  the  same 
of  you?" 

Olof  started  as  if  he  had  been  stabbed.  He  put  his  hands 
to  his  head,  and  strode  violently  up  and  down,  muttering 
wildly:  "Kill  you — yes,  kill  you  and  myself  too,  kill,  kill, 
kill  .  .  ." 

So  he  went  on  for  a  while,  then,  flinging  himself  down  on 
the  sofa,  he  tore  open  his  coat,  snatched  off  the  white  rosette 
he  wore,  and  threw  it  down,  crying  out  in  agony:  "Why 
must  I  suffer  like  this?  Was  there  ever  such  a  wedding 
night?     It  is  hell,  hell  .  .  .!" 

Kyllikki  stood  calmly  watching  him.  She  was  gradually 
feeling  more  sure  of  herself  now.  At  last  she  moved  towards 
him. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  love  you?"  she  said  quietly.  "Or 
must  I  hate  you  and  despise  you?  You  listen  to  the  stories 
of  a  drunken  fool,  instead  of  asking  the  one  person  in  the 
world  you  should  trust;  you  give  me  no  explanation  when  I 
ask  you.  Is  it  any  wonder,  after  all,  that  the  man  should 
have  said  what  he  did — to  let  you  taste  for  once  a  drop 
of  the  poison  you  have  poured  out  for  who  knows  how  many 
others?  As  for  him,  I  knew  him  when  we  were  children — 
there  was  some  talk  of  our  being  married,  years  ago.  He 
was  five  years  older  than  I,  and  was  too  young  then  to  know 
of  any  harm  in  an  occasional  caress.    More  than  that  never 


202  SONG  OF  THE  IJLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

— though  it  seems  in  hii  drunken  wickedness  he  tried  to 
make  out  there  was." 

"Kyllikki,  is  it  true?"  cried  Olof,  springing  to  his  feet. 

"It  is  true.  /  am  still  pure,  but  you — have  you  the  right 
to  ask  a  pure  woman  to  be  your  wife?" 

"Have  I  the  right  .  .  ."  he  began  haughtily;  but  the 
words  died  on  his  lips,  and  he  sank  back  on  the  sofa,  cover- 
ing his  face  with  his  hands,  as  if  to  keep  out  visions  of 
dread, 

"It  would  have  been  only  just,"  Kyllikki  went  on,  "if  it 
had  been  as  you  believed — yes,  it  should  have  been  so! 
And  you  knew  it — and  so  you  stormed  and  threatened  to  kill 
me!" 

She  paused  for  a  moment;  Olof  quailed  under  her  glance. 

"Pure  and  innocent,"  she  continued;  "yes,  that  is  what 
you  ask,  that  is  your  right.  But  have  }ou  for  one  moment 
thought  of  me?  I,  who  am  iujioceut  and  pure — what  is  given 
to  me  in  return?" 

"You  are  torturing  me,"  answered  Olof,  wringing  his 
hands.  "I  know,  I  know — and  I  have  thought  of  you  too. 
.  .  .  Oh,  .  .  ." 

"Thought  of  me? — yes,  perhaps  you  have,  now  and  again. 
There  was  something  of  it  in  your  letter — you  felt  it  then. 
And  I  took  it  as  a  prayer  for  forgiveness,  and  I  could  have 
faced  it  all  as  it  was — I  was  thinking  more  of  you  than  of 
myself.     But  now  .  .  ." 

"O  God — this  is  madness!"  cried  Olof,  his  voice  choking 
with  sobs.  "Is  this  the  end?  .  .  .  And  this  night,  this 
night  that  I  have  looked  forward  to  in  my  brightest  dreams 
— this  new  dawn  that  was  to  be  .  .  .  crushed,  crushed,  a 


THE  BRIDAL  CHAMBER  203 

trampled  wreath  and  veil  .  .  .  and  this  is  my  wedding 
night!" 

He  flung  himself  face  downward  on  the  sofa,  sobbing 
violently. 

"Your  wedding  night?"  said  Kyllikki  softly.  "Your  wed- 
ding night?  How  many  such  have  you  not  had  before? 
But  mine  .  .  ."  Her  voice  broke.  "Oh,  mine  has  never 
been,  and  never  will  be,  never.  .  .  ," 

She  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  weeping,  and  sank  trembling 
to  a  seat. 

And  the  bridal  chamber  echoed  with  sounds  of  woe,  with 
utterances  of  misery  that  might  have  called  the  very  walls 
to  pity. 

Olof  wakened  with  a  start;  moving  blindly,  he  had  stum- 
bled against  her,  and  at  the  touch  of  her  body  he  flung  him- 
self on  his  knees  before  her  and  hid  his  face  in  her  lap. 

"Kill  me!"  he  moaned.  "Forgive  me  and  then  kill  me 
and   make   an   end." 

His  passionate  outburst  seemed  to  calm  her;  she  sat  still, 
and  her  tears  subsided. 

"Speak  to  me!"  cried  Olof  again.  "If  you  cannot  forgive 
me,  then  kill  me,  at  least — or  must  I  do  it  myself?" 

But  Kyllikki  made  no  answer,  only  bent  forward  and, 
slipping  her  hands  beneath  his  arms,  drew  him  up,  softly 
and  slowly,  and  pressed  him  closer  to  her. 

A  sudden  warmth  filled  him,  and  he  threw  his  arms  round 
her  gratefully,  as  a  child  might  do. 

"Crush  me,  then,  crush  me  to  death,  and  I  have  all  I 
asked   for!" 

But  she  did  not  speak,  only  held  him  closer.     And  so  they 


204   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

lay  in  each  other's  arms,  like  children,  worn  out  with 
weeping. 

"Olof,"  said  Kyllikki  at  last,  freeing  herself,  "when  you 
wrote,  you  said  you  did  not  ask  me  to  share  joy  and  hap- 
piness, but  to  work  and  suffer  with  you." 

"Ay,  then,"  said  Olof  bitterly.  "And  even  then  I  still 
hoped  for  happiness." 

"But,  don't  you  see  .  .  .  To-night,  it  is  just  that.  Our 
first  suffering  together." 

"It  has  ruined  all!" 

"Not  all — only  what  we  had  hoped  for  to-night.  All 
the  rest  is  as  it  was." 

"No,  no,  do  not  try  to  deceive  yourself  and  me.  And  for 
myself — what  do  I  care  now?  I  have  deserved  it  all — but 
you,  you  .  .  ." 

"Say  no  more,  Olof.  Let  this  be  ended  now  and  never 
speak  of  it  again.     See,  I  have  forgotten  it  already." 

"All  ...  you  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  all — for  your  sake.  Oh,  let  us  be  content  1  No  one 
in  all  the  world  can  ever  have  all  they  hoped  and  wished 
for.  And  if  we  cannot  have  our  wedding  night  as  lovers — 
let  us  at  least  be  friends  and  comrades  now." 

"Comrades?  .  .  .  yes,  in  miserj',"  sighed  Olof.  And  they 
drew  together  in  a  close  embrace;  two  suffering  creatures, 
with  no  refuge  but  each  other. 

"Olof,"  whispered  Kyllikki  after  a  while,  "we  must  go  to 
rest  now — you  are  worn  out." 

Both  glanced  at  the  white  bridal  bed — and  each  turned  in 
dismay  to  the  other,  reading  each  other's  thought. 


THE  BRIDAL  CHAMBER  205 

"Can't  we — can't  we  sleep  here  on  the  sofa? — it's  nearly 
morning,"  said  Kyllikki  timidly. 

Olof  grasped  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips  without 
a  word. 

Kyllikki  went  to  fetch  some  coverings.  As  she  did  so, 
she  caught  sight  of  something  lying  on  the  table,  and  keeping 
her  back  turned  to  Olof,  she  picked  up  the  thing  and  put 
it  back  in  the  drawer.  Olof's  eyes  followed  her  witn  a  grate- 
ful glance. 

But  as  she  touched  the  pillows  and  the  white  linen  she  had 
worked  with  such  hopes  and  kisses  and  loving  thoughts  for 
this  very  night,  she  broke  down,  and  stood  with  quivering 
shoulders,  fumbling  with  the  bedclothes  to  hide  her  emotion. 

Olof  felt  his  eyelids  quivering,  warm  drops  fell  on  his 
cheek.     He  rose  and  stepped  softly  to  her  side. 

"Kyllikki,"  he  whispered  entreatingly,  "have  you  forgiven 
me — everything  ?" 

"Yes,  everything,"  she  answered,  smiling  through  her 
tears,  and  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck.  "It  was  childish 
of  me  to  cry." 

Gratefully,  and  with  a  new  delight,  he  pressed  her  to  his 
heart.  .  .  . 

"Olof,  don't  put  out  the  light  yet — let  it  bum  till  the 
morning." 

Kyllikki  lay  stretched  on  the  sofa.  Olof  nodded,  and 
laid  himself  down  with  his  head  in  her  lap  and  his  feet 
on  a  chair  by  the  side. 

And  two  pairs  of  darkly  glistening  eyes  fell  to  whispering 
together,  like  lonely  stars  in  a  dark  autumn  sky,  while  the 
earth  sighed  through  the  gloom. 


THE  SOMNAMBULIST 

OLOF  was  a  sleep-walker,  though  he  never  dared 
to  confess  it  even  to  himself.  There  was  some- 
thing mysterious  and   terrifying  in   the  thought. 

A  soul  that  cannot  rest,  but  got-s  forth  when  others  sleep, 
on  errands  of  its  own;  the  body  follows,  but  without  con- 
sciousness. The  eyes  are  open,  but  they  see  only  that  which 
the  soul  is  pleased  to  notice  on  its  way.  It  will  climb  like 
a  squirrel  to  the  roof,  walk  along  narrow  ridges  at  a  giddy 
height.  It  will  open  windows  and  lean  out  over  black  depths, 
or  play  with  keen-edged  weapons  as  if  they  were  toys.  And 
the  onlooker,  in  his  waking  senses,  shudders  at  the  sight, 
realising  that  it  is  tlie  soul  stealing  forth  on  its  nightly  wan- 
derings. 

So  it  had  been  with  Olof  for  a  long  time  now — almost  from 
the  time  when  Kyllikki  first  became  his. 

The  scene  of  their  bridal  night  was  forgotten;  neither 
ever  hinted  at  what  had  passed.  They  had  tried  to  fuse 
with  each  other  in  the  deep  and  beautiful  relationship  which 
had  its  roots  deep  in  the  soul  of  both,  and  in  the  earnest  striv- 
ing that  was  to  clear  and  cultivate  the  ground  on  which 
their  future  should  be  built. 

Olof  was  proud  of  his  wife;  she  moved  with  the  beauty 
of  a  summer  Sunday  in  their  new  home — calm  and  dear- 
eyed,  ever  surrounded  by  a  scent  of  juniper  or  heather. 
And  he  was  filled  with  gratitude,  respect,  and  love  for  her — 
for  her  tender  and  faithful  comradeship. 

206 


THE  SOMNAMBULIST  207 

Then,  like  a  bird  of  night  on  silent  wings,  came  this  walk- 
ing in  his  sleep. 

It  had  happened  many  times  without  his  knowing  it. 
And  still  he  refused  to  believe  it,  though  he  had  more  than 
once  been  on  the  point  of  waking  to  full  consciousness. 
And  he  was  glad  that  Kyllikki  seemed  to  suspect  nothing — 
for  she  said  no  word.  He  dreaded  most  of  all  the  hour  when 
she  should  wake  and  speak  to  him  reproachfully:  "Are  my 
arms  not  warm  enough  to  hold  you;  can  your  soul  not  find 
rest  in  my  soul's  embrace?" 

Of  late  the  mere  thought  of  this  had  made  him  restless. 
And  to  guard  against  it  he  had  thrown  himself  with  re- 
doubled energy  into  his  work,  as  if  life  depended  on  the 
ditching  and  draining  of  a  marsh.  And  gradually  there 
grew  out  of  tliis  a  new  and  far  greater  project,  in  which  the 
entire  neighbourhood  would  share. 

It  was  in  the  quiet  hour  of  dusk,  when  Olof  had  just 
come  home  from  his  work,  and  the  walls  of  the  room  seemed 
whispering  expectantly. 

Silently  as  the  dusk  Kyllikki  stole  into  his  opened  arms, 
her  eyes  asking  what  he  had  to  tell,  and  pouring  out  her  own 
thoughts  and  feelings. 

Olof  laughed,  but  did  not  try  to  meet  the  innermost  depth 
of  her  eyes;  after  a  little  he  ceased  to  look  at  her  at  all, 
but  turned  his  gaze  far  off,  as  if  looking  out  over  the  work 
of  the  day. 

A  little  while  passed  thus. 

Almost  unconsciously  Olof  lifted  one  hand  and  loosened 
the  plaits  of  his  wife's  hair,  letting  the  long  tresses  fall  freely 
over  her  shoulders.     Smiling  and  looking  into  far  distance, 


208  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

he  passed  his  hand  through  the  soft  waves,  and  wrapping  the 
ends  about  his  fingers  clasped  her  waist. 

"My  own  love,"  he  whispered,  gazing  at  her  as  through 
a  veil,  and  bending  to  touch  her  lips. 

And  as  they  kissed  Kyllikki  felt  his  arm  tremble.  Ten- 
derly she  looked  into  his  eyes,  but  started  in  wonder  at 
their  strange  expression — they  seemed  wandering  far  off. 

And  the  dark  forebodings  that  had  long  oppressed  her 
filled  her  now  with  a  sudden  dread.  The  more  she  looked 
at  him,  the  more  she  felt  this  fear — at  last  it  was  almost 
more  than  she  could  bear. 

It  was  as  if  the  soul  that  looked  out  of  his  eyes  had  sud- 
denly vanished,  leaving  only  a  body  that  stiffened  in  a  posture 
of  embrace. 

She  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  her  whole  body  seemed 
turned  to  ice.  Suddenly  she  tore  herself  away,  and  sank 
down  on  a  seat;  Olof  stood  without  moving,  as  if  turned  to 
stone. 

In  a  single  moment  something  terrible  had  passed  between 
them,  which  neither  dared  to  speak  of,  but  which  showed 
plainly  in  their  eyes.  A  gulf  seemed  to  have  opened  before 
their  feet,  filled  with  strange  and  horrible  creatures,  all  wav- 
ing tentacles  and  ghastly  staring  eyes. 

Kyllikki  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  as  if  to  shut 
out  the  sight. 

"Olof — your  soul,  your  soul  .  .  ."  she  moaned,  like  a 
little  child. 

Olof  stood  as  hovering  on  the  verge  of  sleep  and  waking. 
But  at  sight  of  her  trembling  figure  he  seemed  to  come  to 
himself,  and  tried  to  break  loose  from  the  spell. 

"Kyllikki  .  ,  .!"  he  said  imploringly. 


THE  SOMNAMBULIST  209 

She  sat  up,  sobbing,  and  gazed  at  him  as  at  one  whom 
she  did  not  know. 

"Kyllikki,  poor  child!"  he  said  brokenly,  and  sat  down 
by  her  side.  But  his  own  voice  sounded  strange  in  his  ears, 
and  he  could  say  no  more — he  felt  as  if  he  were  a  ghost,  not 
daring  to  speak  to  a  living  human  creature. 

At  sight  of  his  unspoken  misery  Kyllikki  felt  her  own 
dread  rise  up  stronger  than  ever. 

"I  knew  the  suffering  would  come,"  she  said  mournfully. 
"So  many  have  had  their  place  in  your  heart  that  I  could 
not  hope  to  fill  it  all  myself  at  first.  But  I  love  you  so,  and 
I  felt  so  strong,  I  thought  I  could  win  my  way  into  it  little 
by  little  until  it  was  all  mine  .  .  .  and  now  ,  .  ."  She 
broke  off,  and  fell  to  sobbing  anew. 

Olof  would  have  given  anything  to  speak  to  her  then,  but 
found  no  words. 

'And  it  is  so  terrible  to  see  it  all  and  be  helpless,"  she 
went  on.  "You  are  a  wanderer  still — and  I  cannot  hold 
you  .  .  .  you  leave  me — for  those  that  wait  for  you.  ..." 

"O  Heaven!"  cried  Olof  in  agony.  "Kyllikki,  don't— 
don't  speak  like  that.  You  know  I  do  not  care  for  any 
other — would  not  be  with  any  other  but  you." 

"But  you  go — even  against  your  will.  And  they  come 
towards  you  smiling.  I  am  all  alone — and  they  are  so  many. 
And  they  must  win — for  I  can  give  no  more  than  one  woman 
can.  But  they  are  for  ever  whispering  to  you  of  what  a 
woman  can  give  but  once  in  her  life — each  in  her  own 
way.  .  .  ." 

"Kyllikki !"  Olof  broke  in  imploringly. 

But  she  went  on  unheeding,  pouring  out  her  words  like  a 
stream  in  flood-time. 


210  gONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"And  they  hate  me  because  I  thought  to  keep  you  for  ray- 
self  alone.  And  while  you  lie  in  my  arms  they  come  smiling 
and  whispering  and  thread  their  arms  between  us  and  offer 
you  their  lips.  .  .  ." 

"Kyllikki !"  he  cried  again,  and  grasped  at  her  hand  like  a 
drowning  man. 

"And  then — then  it  is  no  longer  me  you  hold  in  your  arms, 
but  those  others;  not  my  lips,  but  theirs,  you  kiss.  .  .  ." 
She  tore  her  hand  away,  and  broke  out  weeping  anew. 

Olof  sat  as  if  turned  to  stone.  The  thing  was  said — it 
was  as  if  a  secret  curse  was  for  ever  dogging  his  footsteps, 
and  spreading  poison  all  around. 

Kyllikki's  despair  gathered  and  grew  like  an  avalanche. 
What  a  blind  self-deceit  their  life  had  been !  How  they  had 
hoped  and  dreamed — with  a  gulf  of  naked  hopelessness  on 
every  side! 

"If  only  I  had — what  I  have  hoped  for  these  last  two  years, 
then  I  could  bear  it  all.  For  that — none  could  rob  me  of 
that!  But  now — I  know  why  it  has  not  come.  And  now 
there  is  no  hope  even  of  that!" 

And  she  groaned  aloud. 

Olof  felt  as  if  a  dagger's  thrust  had  pierced  the  tenderest 
nerve  of  an  already  aching  wound.  He  had  tried  to  comfort 
her,  though  he  himself  had  long  since  lost  all  hope.  The 
fault  could  only  lie  with  him — and  now  he  understood!  He 
felt  himself  crushed  by  a  weight  of  despair,  and  sat  there 
staring  before  him,  wdthout  a  word. 

Kyllikki  grew  calmer  after  a  while,  and  looked  up.  The 
silence  of  the  place  came  to  her  now  for  the  first  time,  and 
with  it  a  new  dread.  She  turned  to  Olof,  and  at  sight  of 
his  face,  drawn  with  despair,  and  darkly  shadowed  in  the 


THE  SOMNAMBULIST  211 

gloom,  she  realised  what  her  words  must  have  meant  to  him. 

"Olof — dear!"  she  cried,  taking  his  hand.  "What  have 
I  done?  I  did  not  mean  to  reproach  you.  It  might  be  my 
fault  as  well — it  must  be  mine  more  than  yours.  .  .  ." 

But  Olof  sat  motionless  as  before,  save  for  a  shiver  that 
now  and  then  passed  through  his  frame. 

And  Kyllikki,  seeing  him  thus,  felt  her  own  trouble  fade; 
a  wave  of  unspeakable  tenderness  and  affection  came  over 
her. 

"Don't — Olof,  you  must  not  be  miserable  for  that,"  she 
said  earnestly.  "Oh,  how  could  I  ever  say  it — how  could  I 
be  so  thoughtless  and  selfish  and  cruel  .  .  .?" 

"No,"  said  Olof — "it  was  not  that.  You  could  not  help 
it.  You  were  my  conscience,  that  is  all — as  you  must  ever 
be,  or  you  would  not  be  the  friend  you  are." 

"Don't  say  that,  Olof — it  was  just  that  I  forgot.  We  are 
friends — and  the  one  thing  that  can  make  and  keep  us  friends 
is  to  toil  and  suffer  together — Olof,  together!" 

Gently  she  drew  closer  to  him,  and  threw  her  arms  about 
him. 

"Don't  you  see?"  she  went  on  softly.  "It's  all  because  I 
love  you  so.  I  want  you  for  myself,  all  for  myself.  I  will 
not  let  you  go — no,  you  shall  look  at  me.  I  will  drive  them 
away,  all  of  them,  if  they  try  to  come  between  us;  oh,  I  am 
strong  enough,  I  know.  You  are  mine,  Olof,  do  you  hear? 
All  mine — mine.  .  .  .  Oh,  why  do  you  sit  there  so?  Speak 
to  me,  Olof!" 

Her  passionate  earnestness  burned  like  bright  flames  about 
him,  gradually  warming  his  heart  to  life  again. 

"Kyllikki,  how  good  you  are!"  he  said,  and  his  eyes 
glistened  as  he  spoke.     "You  are  all  I  have  in  life — without 


212  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

you,  I  should  be  lost.  If  only — if  only  I  could  be  sure  of 
one  thing.  .  .  ." 

'•What  is  it— tell  me,  Olof  .  .  .  ?" 

"That — that  you  do  not  despise  me,  but  trust  me,  that  you 
believe  I  only  care  to  be  yours." 

"Trust  you? — indeed  I  do,"  said  Kyllikki.  "I  know  we 
are  both  striving  toward  the  same  end.  But  there  are  enemies 
that  are  always  on  the  watch.  We  must  beat  them — and 
we  will !  And  I  am  yours — all  yours — as  the  night  when  you 
said  good-bye  to  Kohiseva.  And  you  are  mine — all  mine 
.  .  .  and  then,  Olof — then  it  will  come — the  one  thing  I 
must  have  to  live  for.  .  .  ." 


OUT  OF  THE  PAST 

"KiRKKALA,  7  May  1899. 

DEAREST, — You  will  not  be  angry  because  I  write 
to  you?  How  could  you,  you  who  are  so  goodl 
I  would  not  have  written,  but  I  must,  for  there  is 
so  much  to  tell  you.  It  is  spring  now,  as  it  was  then,  and 
it  has  brought  with  it  such  a  longing  that  I  must  turn  to 
you,  speak  to  you — and  then  I  can  wait  again  till  next  spring. 
You  must  have  known  that  I  have  been  with  you — surely 
you  felt  it?  And  now  here  I  am,  having  learned  by  chance 
where  you  are. 

"Do  you  remember  the  story  I  told  you?  About  the  girl 
and  her  lover  and  the  mark  on  her  breast?  And  what  I 
asked  for  then,  and  you  gave  me?  I  have  often  wondered 
since  whether,  perhaps,  you  might  have  misunderstood  it  all 
— when  I  was  so  serious  and  thoughtful  about  it — if  you 
thought  I  was  not  certain  of  myself,  not  sure  that  I  should 
always  be  yours,  as  I  wished  to  be.  But  it  was  not  so,  dear 
Olof;  I  knew  myself  well  enough  even  then,  though  not  so 
deeply  as  I  do  now.  How  strong  and  deep  love  is !  I  read 
once  in  a  poem — surely  you  know  it  too: 

"  'The  lightning  stroke  falls  swifter  than  breath. 
But  the  tree  that  is  struck  bears  the  mark  till  its  death.' 

And  so  it  is — there  '\^  no  more  to  add;  it  is  as  if  written  by 
the  finger  of  God.  And  so  it  must  be,  or  what  would  our 
love  be  worth? 

213 


214   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"But  it  is  not  all  who  understand  it,  even  the  half.  Human 
beings  are  so  strange — wondering  and  asking  always — ^people 
ask,  for  instance,  why  I  am  always  so  lonely.  .  .  .  They 
cannot  see  that  I  am  not  lonely  at  all. 

"Olof,  if  you  knew  all  I  have  felt  and  suffered  in  these 
years!  I  hardly  know  if  I  dare  tell  you.  But  I  must — I 
only  turn  to  you  now  to  say  it  all,  so  that  I  may  feel  easier 
after.  I  have  longed  for  you  so — more  than  I  can  ever  say; 
I  wonder  how  I  have  been  able  to  live  at  all.  Olof,  Olof, 
do  not  look  at  me!  I  have  only  come  to  whisper  a  little  in 
your  ear.  ...  I  have  had  such  dreadful  thoughts.  As  if 
someone  were  always  behind  me  whispering,  'Look,  there  is 
a  knife — it  is  a  friend;  take  it  and  press  it  deep  in  your 
breast — it  will  feel  like  the  softest  touch  of  the  evening  wind. 
Look,  the  river  is  in  flood.  .  .  .'  And  I  have  hardly  dared 
to  pass  by  the  well,  for  it  looked  up  at  me  so  strangely  with 
its  dark  eye.  And  I  know  I  should  have  given  way  if  you 
had  not  saved  me.  When  I  thought  how  you  would  feel  if 
you  heard  what  I  had  done,  I  seemed  to  see  you  so  clearly; 
you  looked  at  me  reproachfully,  only  looked  at  me  without 
a  word,  and  I  felt  ashamed  that  I  had  ever  thought  of  what 
would  cause  you  sorrow.  And  you  nodded,  and  forgave  me, 
and  all  was  well  again. 

"Then  I  took  to  hoping  that  some  miracle  should  bring 
you  back  to  me.  I  hoped  something  might  happen  to  you, 
so  that  I  could  buy  your  life  with  mine.  You  might  be  bitten 
by  a  snake — it  does  happen  sometimes.  Coming  up  one 
night  with  the  lumbermen,  and  then  next  morning  the  news 
would  be  all  over  the  place,  how  you  had  been  bitten,  and 
were  on  the  point  of  death;  and  I  would  hurry  down  with 
the  rest  to  where  you  were,  and  bend  dowTi  beside  you,  and 


OUT  OF  THE  PAST  215 

press  my  lips  to  the  place  and  draw  the  poison  out.  And 
then  I  could  feel  it  passing  with  your  blood  into  ray  veins,  in 
a  great  wave  of  happiness.  And  soon  I  should  sink  down 
beside  you  on  the  grass;  but  you  would  be  saved,  and  you 
would  know  I  had  been  true  to  you  until  death. 

"So  I  waited  year  after  year.  Then  I  wanted  you  to  be 
ill — very,  very  ill  for  a  long  time,  and  weak,  till  your  heart 
could  hardly  beat  at  all  for  want  of  blood,  and  you  lay  in  a 
trance.  Then  the  doctors  would  say  if  anyone  would  give 
their  blood  he  might  come  to  life  again.  But  no  one  could 
be  found,  for  there  were  only  strangers  there.  Then  I  hear 
about  it,  and  come  quickly,  and  the  doctors  start  at  once,  for 
there  is  no  time  to  be  lost.  And  they  draw  off  my  blood  and 
let  it  flow  into  your  body,  and  it  acts  at  once,  and  you  move 
a  little,  though  you  are  still  in  a  trance.  *A  little  more,' 
say  the  doctors — 'see,  the  girl  is  smiling;  it  will  do  her  no 
harm.'  And  they  only  see  that  I  smile,  and  do  not  know 
how  weak  I  am  already.  And  when  you  wake,  I  am  cold 
and  pale  already,  but  happy  as  a  bride,  and  you  kiss  me  on 
the  lips  like  a  lover.  For  now  I  am  your  bride,  and  one  with 
you  for  ever,  and  I  cannot  die,  for  my  blood  lives  in  you! 

"But  all  this  was  only  dreams.  You  were  not  ill,  nor 
bitten  by  a  snake,  and  at  last  I  did  not  even  know  where  you 
were.  And  then  I  wanted  to  die,  for  I  felt  so  weak.  And 
I  waited  for  it  day  after  day  and  month  after  month — I  had 
already  written  to  say  good-bye  to  you.  But  death  did  not 
come — I  had  to  go  on  living. 

"I  have  been  so  ill,  Olof — it  is  my  heart.  Perhaps  I  am 
too  sensitive;  they  called  me  a  dreamer  when  I  was  a  child. 
And  even  now  that  I  am  older  they  have  said  the  same.  But 
how  could  I  ever  forget  you,  and  the  hours  that  were  th^ 


216   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

confession  and  communion  of  my  whole  life?  How  could  I 
forget  those  evenings  when  I  sat  at  your  feet  and  looked  into 
your  eyes?  Olof,  I  can  feel  it  all  still,  and  tremble  at  the 
thought  of  it. 

"You  must  forgive  me  all  this.  It  feels  easier  now  that  I 
have  spoken  to  you  and  told  you  about  it  all — how  I  still 
feel  grateful  to  you  for  all  you  gave  me  then.  I  was  very 
childish  and  poor  then,  and  had  nothing  to  give  you  in  return 
— now,  afterwards,  I  could  perhaps  have  given  you  something 
too.  I  should  have  been  so  happy  if  we  could  have  been 
together  always;  earth  would  have  been  like  heaven,  and 
none  but  angels  everywhere.  And  even  now  I  can  be  so 
happy,  though  I  only  have  you  in  secret.  Secretly  I  say 
good-night  to  you,  and  kiss  you,  and  no  one  knows  that  you 
rest  every  night  in  my  arms.  And,  do  you  know,  Olof,  there 
is  one  thing  that  is  so  strange,  I  hardly  know  what  it  means. 
Now,  just  lately,  I  have  felt  sometirpes  that  you  were  really 
here,  your  living  self,  sitting  beside  me  and  whispering  that 
I  was  yours,  your  love,  your  friend.  And  it  makes  me  so 
happy — but  I  always  cry  afterwards. 

"There  was  one  thing  more — but  I  can't  think  what  it  was. 
Something  about  .  .  .  yes,  now  I  remember.  The  greatest 
and  loveliest  of  all,  that  I  asked  you  for.  Shall  I  tell  you? 
The  miracle  has  happened,  though  no  one  knows  about  it. 
You  gave  it  me  after  all,  that  spring  when  I  was  so  ill.  And 
I  could  not  live  without  it.  He  is  two  years  old  now — oh,  if 
you  could  only  see  him!  His  eyes  and  his  voice — they  are 
just  your  very  own.  Do  not  be  anxious  about  him.  I  will 
be  so  careful,  and  see  that  he  grows  up  a  fine  man.  I  have 
sewed  every  stitch  of  his  clothes  myself,  and  he  looks  like  a 
prince — there   never   was   such   a   child.      We   are   alwajrs 


OUT  OF  THE  PAST  217 

together,  and  talking  of  you.  I  am  sorry  for  mother  some- 
times; she  looks  so  strangely  at  me,  and  says  I  go  about 
talking  to  myself — but  how  could  she  know  of  my  prince 
and  his  father,  and  why  I  talk?  Talking  to  myself,  she  says. 
But  I  am  talking  to  the  child  all  the  time. 

'There,  and  what  more  was  I  going  to  say?  I  can't 
remember  now.  I  feel  so  much  better  now  I  have  told  you 
all  about  it.  And  now  the  summer  is  coming — I  always  feel 
happier  then.  It  was  raining  before,  but  now  the  sun  has 
come  out  and  the  birds  are  singing.     And  so  good-bye,  my 

dearest,  my  sunshine,  my  summer. — Your  own 

Clematis, 

"Do  not  write  to  me — I  am  better  as  I  am.     I  know  you 

have  not  forgotten  me,  that  you  could  not  forget  .  .  .  and 

that  is  all  I  ask." 


THE  MARK 

OLOF  was  growing  uneasy — a  feeling  of  insecurity 
had  come  over  him.     The  air  seemed  full  of  my- 
sterious forces,  whispering  together  and  joining  in 
alliance   against  him. 

It  had  all  looked  clear  and  simple  enough  before.  No 
one  had  ever  stood  in  his  way  or  threatened  his  plans.  But 
now  something  was  threatening  him — something  unknown, 
mysterious,  but  which  he  could  not  help  feeling  all  the  time. 

He  made  every  effort  to  resist — to  gather  arms  and  allies 
against  what  was  to  come.  His  project  for  draining  the 
marsh  was  the  first  thing;  he  went  about  from  one  homestead 
to  another,  talking  to  the  men  one  by  one,  and  trying  to 
interest  them  in  the  idea.  A  general  meeting  was  held,  and 
he  made  a  great  speech,  putting  out  all  his  powers  of  per- 
suasion; his  voice  rang  with  a  convincing  strength,  and  his 
words  carried  weight.  And  to  begin  with,  all  went  well 
enough;  it  was  agreed  that  an  expert  should  be  called  in  to 
investigate  the  whole  question,  and  work  out  the  probable 
cost  of  the  undertaking. 

But  then  came  a  period  of  waiting  and  inactivity,  which 
sapped  his  strength  anew.  He  had  to  seek  about  for  some 
fresh  task,  for  new  difficulties  to  meet  and  overcome,  in  order 
to  regain  his  confidence  in  himself.  And  so  for  a  week  he 
roved  about  in  the  forest  betw^een  his  o^^^l  and  the  neighbour- 
ing parishes. 

218 


THE  MARK  219 

At  last  he  found  what  he  sought — the  line  for  a  new  road, 
better  and  quicker  than  the  old  one. 

It  was  a  fine  idea,  that  no  one  could  deny.  It  would  be  a 
great  gain  to  all  in  Hirviyoki,  especially  for  those  in  the 
outlying  parts;  it  meant  a  saving  of  miles  on  their  way  to 
the  railway,  the  mills,  and  other  centres. 

And  so  once  more  Olof  went  from  house  to  house,  seeking 
adherents  among  the  most  influential  men,  so  as  to  crush 
opposition  before  the  matter  was  taken  up  for  general  dis- 
cussion. He  started  with  those  nearest  at  hand,  working 
gradually  farther  out. 

"Is  this  Inkala?"  asked  Olof  of  a  serving-girl,  as  he 
entered  the  courtyard;  he  did  not  know  the  place,  nor  who 
lived  there. 

"This  is  Inkala — yes,"  answered  the  girl. 

"Is  the  master  at  home?" 

"No;  he  went  off  to  Muurila  this  morning." 

"H'm.     And  when's  he  coming  back?" 

"Don't  know  at  all.  But  maybe  mistress'll  know.  If 
you'd  go  in  by  the  front  way,  I'll  tell  her." 

Olof  walked  up  the  front  steps. 

Hardly  had  he  entered  the  room  when  a  slender,  fair- 
haired  woman  appeared  from  within. 

"Good-day  to  .  .  ."  Olof  began;  but  the  greeting  died  on 
his  lips,  and  a  shiver  passed  through  his  body. 

The  woman  stopped  still;  her  lips  moved,  but  uttered  no 
word. 

Stiffly,  uneasily,  they  looked  at  each  other.  A  glimpse  of 
the  past,  a  sequence  of  changes,  things  new  and  things 
familiar — the  vision  of  a  moment,  seen  in  a  flash. 


220   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

A  warm  flush  spread  over  the  woman's  cheeks,  and  she 
stepped  forward  without  hesitation  to  greet  the  newcomer. 

"Welcome,  Olof,"  she  said,  with  frank  kindness,  though 
her  voice  trembled  slightly.  "And  is  it  really  you?  Sit 
down." 

But  Olof  stood  still,  unable  to  recover  himself. 

"I  dare  say  you're  surprised  to — to  find  me  here,"  went 
on  the  woman,  tr)'ing  to  speak  easily  and  naturally,  though 
her  features  and  the  look  in  her  eyes  revealed  a  certain 
emotion.  "I  have  been  here  for  four  years  now."  She 
stopped,  and  cast  down  her  eyes  in  confusion. 

"Really — four  years,  is  it  as  long  as  that  .  .  .?"  Olof 
stammered  out  the  words  awkwardly,  and  could  say  no  more. 

"But  you've  heard  no  news  of  me,  I  suppose,  and  my  being 
here.  I  knew  a  little  about  you,  though — that  you  had  come 
back  and  were  living  near.  ..." 

"Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  No,  I  had  no  idea.  ...  I  came  prepared 
to  find  only  strangers,  and  then  ...  to  meet  you  here  .  .  . 
so  far  from  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  it  is  a  long  way  from  my  home."  The  woman 
grasped  eagerly  at  something  to  talk  of.  "And  it's  all  so 
different  here,  though  it's  not  so  far,  after  all,  counting  the 
miles.  It  was  very  strange  and  new  at  first,  of  course,  but 
now  I  like  it  well  enough.  And  we  often  go  over  to  the  old 
place,  and  father  and  mother  come  to  see  us  here.  ..." 

"Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  And  how  are  they  at  home?  Your  mother 
and  father?"  Olof  asked,  with  a  ring  of  pleasant  recollec- 
tion in  his  voice. 

"Finely,  thank  you.  Father  was  bad  for  a  time  last  winter, 
but  he's  got  over  it  now,  or  nearly  .  .  ." 


THE  MARK  221 

She  broke  off  and  glanced  at  the  door.  It  was  thrust  open 
a  little,  and  a  child's  head  looked  in. 

She  stepped  hastily  across  the  room.  "What  do  you  want 
in  here  ?  Can't  you  see  here  are  visitors — and  you  with  your 
dirty  overall  on?" 

"I  wanted  to  see,"  said  the  little  man  stubbornly,  with 
childish  insistence,  and  clung  to  his  mother. 

Olof  looked  at  the  child  as  at  a  vision. 

The  woman  stood,  pale  and  confused,  holding  the  boy  by 
the  hand. 

"Come  alpng,  then,  and  say  good-day,"  she  stammered  at 
last,  hardly  knowing  what  she  did. 

The  boy  came  forward,  and  stood  holding  Olof's  knees, 
looking  up  into  his  face. 

Child  and  man  gazed  at  each  other  without  a  word  or 
movement,  as  if  each  were  seeking  for  some  explanation. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  before,"  said  the  child  at  last.  "Do 
you  live  a  long  way  away?" 

Olof  felt  himself  trembling.  The  child's  first  words  had 
set  his  heart  beating  wildly. 

"But  you  mustn't  stay  here,  dear,"  said  the  woman  hastily, 
and  led  the  boy  away.  "Go  into  the  next  room  a  little — 
mother's  coming  soon." 

The  child  obeyed  without  a  word,  but  in  the  doorway  he 
turned,  and  again  looked  wonderingly  at  his  mother  and  the 
strange  man.  .  .  . 

Olof  was  gone;  the  young  mistress  of  Inkala  sat  alone  in 
her  room. 

Thinking  it  over  now,  it  seemed  like  a  dream.     Was  it 


222  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

indeed  Olof  she  had  seen?  Or  had  she  been  dreaming  in 
broad  daylight? 

It  had  seemed  natural  enough  at  first.  Both  were  surprised, 
of  course,  at  the  unexpected  meeting,  but  soon  they  had  found 
themselves  talking  calmly  enough. 

But  the  entry  of  the  child  had  brought  a  touch  of  some- 
thing strange  and  unspeakable — it  seemed  to  change  them  all 
at  once  to  another  footing,  bringing  up  a  reckoning  out  of 
the  past. 

True,  she  had  wondered  now  and  again  if  fate  would  ever 
bring  her  face  to  face  with  Olof  again — if  he  would  ever  see 
the  child.  But  she  had  put  the  thought  aside  as  painful  to 
dwell  upon. 

And  now,  here  they  were,  those  two;  no  stranger  but 
would  at  once  have  taken  them  for  father  and  son,  though  in 
truth  there  was  no  kinship  between  them. 

It  was  as  if  she  were  suddenly  called  upon  to  answer  for 
her  life. 

First  it  was  her  son  that  questioned  her,  standing  in  the 
doorway,  looking  at  both  with  his  irmocent  eyes. 

And  then — a  triple  reckoning — to  Olof,  to  her  husband, 
and  to  God. 

Until  that  day  her  secret  had  been  known  to  none  but 
God  and  herself.  And  now — he  knew  it,  he,  the  one  she 
had  resolved  should  never  know. 

And  the  third  stood  there  too,  like  one  insistent  question, 
waiting  to  know.  .  .  . 

"Daisy  .  .  .?" 

She  would  have  told  him,  frankly  and  openly,  as  she 
herself  understood  it.  How  she  had  longed  for  him  and 
the  thought  of  him,  and  never  dreamed  that  she  could  ever 


THE  MARK  223 

love  another!  Until  at  last  he  came — her  husband.  How 
good  and  honest  and  generous  he  had  been — willing  to  take 
her,  a  poor  cottage  girl,  and  make  her  mistress  of  the  place. 
And  how  she  herself  had  felt  so  weak,  so  bitterly  in  need  of 
friendship  and  support,  until  at  last  she  thought  she  really 
loved  him.  " 

No,  she  could  not  tell  him  that — it  would  have  been 
WTong  every  way — as  if  she  had  a  different  explanation  for 
each. 

And  to  Olof  she  said  only:  "I  loved  him,  it  is  true.  But 
our  first  child — you  saw  yourself.  It's  past  understanding. 
It  must  have  been  that  I  could  not  even  then  forget — that 
first  winter.     I  can  find  no  other  way  .  .  ." 

Olof  sat  helplessly,  as  in  face  of  an  inexplicable  riddle. 

Then  she  went  on,  speaking  now  to  God,  while  Olof  was 
pondering  still. 

"You  know  .  .  .  you  know  it  all!  I  thought  I  had  freed 
myself  from  him,  but  it  was  not  so.  My  heart  was  given  to 
him,  and  love  had  marked  it  with  his  picture,  so  that  life 
had  no  other  form  for  me.  And  then,  when  I  loved  again, 
and  our  first-born  lay  beneath  my  heart  .  .  .  All  that  was 
in  my  thoughts  that  time  .  .  .  and  after,  when  the  child  was 
to  be  bom  .  .  .  the  struggle  in  my  mind  .  .  .  how  I  did  not 
always  wish  myself  it  should  be  otherwise — dearly  as  I  have 
paid  for  it  since.  .  .  ." 

And  at  last,  in  a  whisper,  she  spoke  to  her  husband: 

"It  was  terrible — terrible.  For  your  sake,  because  you 
had  been  so  good — you,  the  only  one  I  love.  It  was  as  if  I 
were  faithless  to  you,  and  yet  I  know  my  heart  was  true. 
I  would  have  borne  the  secret  alone,  that  is  why  I  have 


224  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

never  spoken  of  it  to  you  before.     But  now  I  must — and  it 
hurts  me  that  any  should  have  known  it  before." 

Olof  was  waiting — she  could  see  it  in  his  eyes. 

"You  know,  I  need  not  tell  you  how  it  has  made  me 
suffer,"  she  said,  turning  towards  him.  "And  when  the 
second  time  came,  and  I  was  again  to  be  a  mother,  I  wept 
and  prayed  in  secret — and  my  prayer  was  heard.  It  was  a 
girl — and  her  father's  very  image.  And  after  that  I  felt 
safe,  and  calm  again.  .  .  ." 

She  marked  how  Olof  sighed,  how  the  icy  look  seemed  to 
melt  from  his  eyes. 

And  she  herself  felt  an  unspeakable  tenderness,  a  longing 
to  open  her  heart  to  him.  Of  all  she  had  thought  of  in 
those  years  of  loneliness — life  and  fate  and  love.  .  .  .  Had 
he  too,  perhaps,  thought  of  such  things?  And  what  had  he 
come  to  in  the  end?  She  herself  felt  now  that  when  two 
human  beings  have  once  been  brought  together  by  fate,  once 
opened  their  hearts  fully  to  each  other,  it  is  hard  indeed  for 
either  to  break  the  tie — hardest  of  all  for  the  woman.  And 
first  love  is  so  strong — because  one  has  dreamed  of  it  and 
waited  for  it  so  long,  till  like  a  burning  glass  it  draws  together 
all  the  rays  of  one's  being,  and  bums  its  traces  ineffaceably 
upon  the  soul.  .  .  . 

But  his  tongue  was  tied,  as  if  they  had  been  altogether 
strangers  during  those  past  years;  as  if  they  had  nothing, 
after  all,  to  say  to  each  other  but  this  one  thing.  And  it  was 
of  this  he  was  thinking  now — with  thoughts  heavy  as  sighs. 

"Life  is  so — and  what  is  done  cannot  be  undone — ^there  is 
no  escape.  ..." 

Those  were  Olof's  words — all  that  he  found  to  say  to  her 
in  return. 


THE  MARK  225 

"Escape?  No!  All  that  has  once  happened  sets  its  mark 
on  us,  and  follows  us  like  a  shadow;  it  will  overtake  us  some 
day  wherever  we  may  go — I  have  learned  that  at  least,  and 
learned  it  in  a  way  that  is  not  easy  to  forget." 

"Vou — have  you  too  .  .  .?"  Again  she  felt  that  in- 
expressible tenderness,  the  impulse  to  draw  nearer  to  him. 
How  much  they  would  have  to  say  to  each  other — the  thoughts 
and  lessons  of  all  those  years!  She  knew  it  well  enough 
for  her  own  part,  and  from  his  voice,  too,  she  knew  it  was 
the  same.  And  yet  it  could  not  be.  They  seemed  so  very 
near  each  other,  but  for  all  that  \vide  apart;  near  in  the 
things  of  the  past,  but  sundered  inevitably  in  the  present. 
Their  hearts  must  be  closed  to  each  other — it  showed  in  their 
eyes,  and  nothing  could  alter  that. 

.  .  .  What  happened  after  she  hardly  knew.  Had  they 
talked,  or  only  thought  together?  She  remembered  only  how 
he  had  risen  at  last  and  grasped  her  hand. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  with  a  strange  tremor  in  his  voice, 
as  if  the  word  held  infinitely  much  in  itself. 

And  she  could  only  stammer  confusedly  in  return: 
"Forgive  ,  .  .1" 

She  hardly  knew  what  it  was  they  had  asked  each  other 
to  forgive,  only  that  it  was  something  that  had  to  come,  and 
was  good  to  say,  ending  and  healing  something  out  of  the 
past,  freeing  them  at  last  each  from  the  other.  .  .  . 

One  thing  she  remembered,  just  as  he  was  going.  She  had 
felt  she  must  say  it  tlien — a  sincere  and  earnest  thought  that 
had  often  been  in  her  mind. 

"Olof — I  have  heard  about  your  wife.  And  I  am  so  glad 
she  is — as  she  is.  It  was  just  such  a  wife  you  needed  .  .  . 
it  was  not  everyone  could  have  filled  her  place.  .  .  ." 


226  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

Had  she  said  it  aloud  ?  She  fancied  so — or  was  it  perhaps 
only  her  eyes  that  had  spoken  ?  It  might  be  so.  One  thing 
was  certain — he  had  understood  it,  every  word — she  had 
read  so  much  in  his  eyes. 

And  then  he  had  gone  away — hurriedly,  as  one  who  has 
stayed  too  long. 


THE  PILGRIMAGE 

VISITORS  coming! 
Oho — indeed ! 
The  cat  is  sitting  on  the  threshold,  licking  her 
paws. 

But  Olof  sits  deep  in  thought,  whittling  at  the  handle  of 
a  spade.  A  stillness  as  in  church — no  sound  but  the  rasp 
of  the  knife  blade  on  the  wood,  and  the  slow  ticking  of  a 
clock. 

Olof  works  away.  The  wood  he  cuts  is  clean  and  white, 
his  shirt  is  clean  and  white — Kyllikki  had  washed  it.  Kyl- 
likki  has  gone  out. 

The  cat  is  making  careful  toilet,  as  for  a  great  occasion. 

Visitors  coming! 

Already  steps  are  heard  outside. 

The  door  creaks,  the  cat  springs  into  the  middle  of  the 
room  in  a  fright;  Olof  looks  up  from  his  work. 

Enters  a  young  woman,  elegantly  dressed,  her  hair  town- 
fashion  up  on  her  head,  under  a  coquettish  summer  hat — a 
scornful  smile  plays  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

She  stands  hesitating  a  moment,  as  if  uncertain  what  to 
say. 

"Good-day,"  she  says  at  last,  with  assumed  familiarity, 
and  taking  a  hasty  step  forward,  offers  her  hand. 

Olof  scans  her  in  silence  from  head  to  foot — surely  he 

should  know  her  ? — and  yet,  who  can  she  be  .  .  .  ?     He  will 

not  recognise  her. 

227 


228  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"Aha!  You  look  surprised !  Don't  know  me — don't  you? 
Your  own  darling!"     She  laughs  harshly,  contemptuously. 

"Or  perhaps  you  have  seen  so  many  others  since — rowans 
and  berries  and  flowers — that  you  can't  remember  one  from 
another?" 

Olof's  hand  trembles,  and  his  face  turns  white  as  the 
sleeves  of  his  shirt. 

The  woman  laughs  again  boldly,  and  flings  herself  on  the 
sofa  in  a  careless  pose. 

"Well,  here  we  are  again — staring  at  each  other — what? 
Didn't  use  to  stare  that  way,  did  we?     What  do  you  say?" 

Olof  has  fallen  into  a  seat;  he  looks  at  her,  but  makes  no 
answer. 

"And  your  princess — is  she  at  home,  may  I  ask?" 

"No!"     Olof  answers  with  an  angry  ring  in  his  voice. 

The  woman  marks  it,  and  draws  herself  up,  as  if  in 
answer  to  a  challenge. 

"Good!  I've  no  business  with  her.  But  I've  something 
to  say  to  you.  And  maybe  it's  best  for  her  she's  away. 
She'd  not  be  over  pleased  to  see  me,  I  fancy."  The  words 
shot  like  venom  from  her  tongue — a  sting  from  laughing  lips. 

Her  callousness  seems  to  freeze  him — while  his  blood  boils 
at  the  insult  to  Kyllikki.  He  is  about  to  speak:  "Say 
what  you  will,  but  not  an  evil  word  of  her!" — when  the 
woman  goes  on: 

"Well,  it's  no  good  sitting  here  solemn  as  an  owl!  I  just 
thought  I'd  look  you  up — it's  a  long  time  since  we  met,  isn't 
it?  Let's  have  a  little  talk  together — talk  of  love,  for 
instance.  I've  learned  a  deal  about  that  myself  since  the 
old  days." 


THE  PILGRIMAGE  229 

Olof  was  all  ice  now — the  bold,  scornful  look  in  her  eyes, 
and  her  short,  bitter  laugh  froze  every  kindlier  feeling  in 
him. 

Then  suddenly  the  scornful  smile  vanishes  from  her  face. 

"Curse  you  all!"  she  cries  wildly.  "Oh,  I  know  what  men 
are  now!"  She  stamps  her  foot  violently.  "Beasts — beasts, 
every  one  of  you — only  that  some  wear  horns  and  others  not, 
and  it  makes  but  little  difference  after  all.  .  .  . 
^  "Ay,  you  may  stare!  You're  one  of  them  yourself — 
though  maybe  just  so  much  above  the  ruck  of  them  that  I'm 
willing  to  waste  words  on  you.  Listen  to  me!"  She  springs 
to  her  feet  and  moves  towards  him.  "I  hate  you  and  despise 
you  every  one.  Oh,  I  could  tear  the  eyes  out  of  every  man 
on  this  earth — and  yours  first  of  all!" 

A  wild  hatred  flames  in  her  big  brown  eyes,  her  face  is 
contorted  with  passion ;  she  is  more  like  a  fury  than  a  human 
being. 

"And  as  for  your  love  .  .  ."  she  went  on,  flinging  herself 
down  on  the  sofa  once  more.  "Ay,  you  can  twitter  about  it 
all  so  prettily,  can't  you? — till  you've  tempted  us  so  near 
that  the  beast  in  you  can  grab  us  with  its  claws!  Love — 
who  is  it  you  love?  Shall  I  tell  you?  'Tis  yourselves! 
You  beasts!  We're  just  pretty  dolls,  and  sweet  little  pets 
to  be  played  with,  aren't  we?  Until  you  fall  on  us  with 
your  wolfish  lust  .  .  .  'tis  all  you  think  or  care  for — just 
that!" 

She  spoke  with  such  intensity  of  feeling  that  Olof  never 
thought  of  saying  a  word  in  defence — he  felt  as  if  he  were 
being  lashed  and  beaten — violently,  yet  no  worse  than  he 
deserved. 


230  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"Well,  why  don't  you  say  something?  Aren't  you  going 
to  stand  up  for  your  sex?  Why  don't  you  turn  me  out,  eh? 
Fool — ^like  the  rest  of  you !  What  is  it  you  offer  us,  tell  me 
that  ?  Your  bodies !  And  what  else  ?  Your  bodies  again — 
ugh!  And  sweet  words  enough  as  long  as  you  want  us;  but 
as  soon  as  you've  had  your  fill — you  turn  over  on  the  other 
side  and  only  want  to  sleep  in  peace.  .  .  ." 

She  gave  him  one  long  scornful  glance,  and  sat  silent  for 
a  moment,  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

"Well — what  are  you  sitting  there  writhing  about  for  like 
a  sick  cat?  What's  the  matter  now?  Oh,  you're  married, 
aren't  you  ? — living  in  the  state  of  holy  matrimony  .  .  .  take 
a  wife  and  cleave  to  her  .  .  .  one  flesh,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it  .  .  .  flesh!  Ugh!  Holy  matrimony  indeed!  As  if  that 
could  hide  the  filth  and  misery  of  it  all !  No !  Beasts  glar- 
ing over  the  fence  at  what  you  want — and  when  it  pleases  you 
to  break  it  down,  why  not?  And  your  wives — shall  I  tell 
you  what  they  are  to  you — what  they  know  they  are?  The 
same  as  we  others,  no  more  .  .  .  your  ..." 

A  dark  flush  rose  to  Olof's  cheeks,  and  he  broke  in 
violently : 

"You  .  .  .  you  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  coarse  and  vulgar  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  yes, 
I  know.  But  what  about  you  men?  You're  worse  than  all ! 
Marriage — it's  all  very  well  for  the  children.  And  even  that 
.  .  .  Wasn't  it  the  men  that  wanted  the  State  to  take  over 
all  children,  what?  A  pretty  thought — leave  your  young 
behind  you  where  you  please — and  the  State  to  look  after 
them.  Make  love  free  and  beautiful.  Oh,  yes.  And  we're 
to  have  all  the  pain  and  trouble — and  the  State  to  pay — 
noble  and  generous,  aren't  you?     What  other  beast  gave  you 


THE  PILGRIMAGE  231 

that  grand  idea,  I  wonder?  The  dogs  that  run  in  the 
streets  .  .  .?" 

Olof  sat  motionless,  watching  her  passionate  outburst  as 
if  fascinated.  And  beneath  the  ghastly  mask  he  seemed  to 
see  the  face  of  a  young,  innocent  girl,  with  childish,  trusting 
eyes,  and  .  .  . 

"No,  it's  no  good  your  trying  that,"  the  woman  broke  in. 
"I  know  what  you're  thinking  of  now.  You  hate  me,  loathe 
me,  as  I  am  now.  And  you're  asking  yourself  if  it  really 
can  be  the  same  little  bit  of  a  child  that  used  to  sit  on  your 
knee  and  look  up  to  you  as  if  you  were  God  Himself!  No — 
I'm  not — there's  nothing  left  but  bitterness.  Can't  you 
understand?  Oh,  we're  coarse  and  sour  and  harsh  and  all 
the  rest — all  that  you've  made  us.  But  I'll  tell  you  what 
we  are  besides — ourselves,  ourselves,  for  all  that!" 

She  rose  up  from  the  sofa,  and  crossing  the  room,  sat  down 
on  a  chair  close  to  where  Olof  was  seated.  Then,  lowering 
her  voice  a  little,  she  went  on,  as  if  striving  with  words  and 
look  to  penetrate  his  soul : 

"We  are  women — do  you  know  what  that  means?  And  we 
long  for  love — all  of  us,  good  or  bad — or,  no,  there  is  neither 
good  nor  bad  among  us,  we  are  alike.  We  long  for  you,  and 
for  love.  But  how?  Ah,  you  should  know!  Answer  me, 
as  you  would  to  God  Himself:  of  all  the  women  you  have 
known,  has  any  one  of  them  ever  craved  your  body?  Answer, 
and  speak  the  truth!" 

"No — no  ...  it  is  true!"  stammered  Olof  confusedly. 

"Good  that  you  can  be  honest  at  least.  And  that  is  just 
what  makes  the  gulf  between  us.  For  you,  the  body  is  all 
and  everything,  but  not  for  us.     We  can  feel  the  same  desire. 


232  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

perhaps — after  you  have  taught  us.  But  the  thing  we  long 
for  in  our  innermost  heart — you  never  give  us.  You  give  us 
moments  of  intoxication,  no  more.  And  we  are  foolish 
enough  to  trust  you.  We  are  cheated  of  our  due,  but  we 
hope  on;  we  come  to  you  and  beg  and  pray  for  it,  until  at 
last  we  realise  that  you  can  give  us  nothing  but  what  in 
itself,  by  itself,  only  j&lls  us  with  loathing.  ..." 

Olof  breathed  hard,  as  in  a  moment's  respite  at  the  stake, 
with  the  lash  still  threatening  above  his  head. 

"Yes,  that  is  your  way.  You  take  us — but  why  will  you 
never  take  us  wholly?  You  give  us  money,  or  fine  clothes, 
a  wedding  ring  even — but  never  yourselves,  never  the  thing 
we  longed  for  in  you  from  the  first.  You  look  on  love  as  a 
pastime  only;  for  us  it  is  life  itself.  But  you  never  under- 
stand, only  wash  your  hands  of  it  all,  and  go  your  own  ways 
self-satisfied  as  ever." 

Olof  was  ashy  pale  and  his  eyelids  quivered  nervously. 

The  woman's  face  had  lost  its  scornful  look,  the  hardness 
of  her  features  had  relaxed.  She  was  silent  a  moment,  and 
when  she  spoke  again,  seemed  altogether  changed.  She  spoke 
softly  and  gently,  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"Even  you,  Olof,  even  you  do  not  understand.  I  know 
what  you  are  thinking  now.  You  ask,  what  right  have  I 
to  reproach  you,  seeing  that  I  was  never  yours  as — as  the 
others  were?  It  is  true,  but  for  all  that  you  were  more 
closely  bound  to  me,  with  a  deeper  tie,  than  with  the  others. 
What  do  I  care  for  them  ?  They  do  not  matter — it  is  nothing 
to  me  if  they  ever  existed  or  not.  But  you  and  I — we  were 
united,  though  perhaps  you  cannot  understand.  .  .  .  Olof! 
When  I  sat  close  to  you,  in  your  arms,  I  felt  that  my  blood 
belonged  to  you,  and  that  feeling  I  have  never  altogether  lost. 


THE  PILGRIMAGE  233 

It  is  you  I  have  been  seeking  through  all  these  years — you, 
and  something  to  still  the  longing  you  set  to  grow  in  my  soul. 
Men  fondled  me  with  coarse  hands,  and  had  their  will  of 
me — and  I  thought  of  your  caresses;  it  was  with  you,  with 
you  I  sinned!" 

The  sweat  stood  out  in  beads  on  Olof's  brow — the  torture 
was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear.  "I  know,  I  knowl" 
he  would  have  said.  "Say  no  more — I  know  it  all!"  But 
he  could  not  frame  a  single  word. 

She  moved  nearer,  watching  him  closely. 

And  slipping  to  the  floor  beside  him  she  clasped  his  knees. 

"Olof— don't  look  like  that!"  she  cried.  "Don't  you  see, 
it  is  not  you  alone  I  mean.  Tear  out  your  eyes — no,  no,  I 
didn't  mean  it,  Olof!  Oh,  I  am  mad — we  are  all  mad,  we 
have  sinned.  .  .  .  Do  not  hate  me,  do  not  send  me  away. 
I  am  worthless  now,  I  know,  but  it  was  you  I  loved,  Olof, 
you  and  no  other." 

Olof  writhed  in  horror,  as  if  all  his  past  had  come  upon 
him  suddenly  like  a  monster,  a  serpent  that  was  crushing  him 
in  its  toils. 

"No,  let  me  stay  a  little  yet,  do  not  send  me  away.  Only 
a  moment,  Olof,  and  I  will  go.  No,  I  will  not  reproach  you 
— you  did  not  know  me  then.  And  I  knew  nothing — how 
should  we  have  known?" 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  watching  his  face.  Then  she 
went  on: 

"Tell  me  one  thing — those  others — have  any  of  them  come 
to  you — since?  Ah,  I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes.  None  who 
have  known  you  could  ever  forget.  If  only  you  had  been 
like  all  the  rest — we  do  not  long  for  them  when  they  are 
gone.     But  you  were — you.     And  a  woman  must  ever  come 


234   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

back  to  the  man  that  won  her  heart.  We  may  think  we  hate 
him,  but  it  is  not  true.  And  when  life  has  had  its  way  with 
us,  and  left  us  crushed  and  soiled — then  we  come  back  to 
him,  as — how  shall  I  say  it? — as  to  holy  church — no,  as 
pilgrims,  penitents,  to  a  shrine  .  .  .  come  back  to  look  for 
a  moment  on  all  that  was  pure  and  good  ...  to  weep  over 
all  that  died  so  soon  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  broke.  She  thrust  aside  the  piece  of  wood  he 
had  been  holding  all  the  time,  and  sent  it  clattering  to  the 
floor;  then  grasping  his  hands,  she  pressed  them  to  her  eyes, 
and  hid  her  head  in  his  lap. 

Olof  felt  the  room  darkening  round  him.  He  sat  leaning 
forward,  with  his  chin  on  his  breast;  heavy  tears  dropped 
from  his  eyes  like  the  dripping  of  thawed  snow  from  the 
eaves  in  spring. 

For  a  long  while  they  sat  thus.  At  last  the  woman  raised 
her  head,  and  looked  ^\'ith  tear-stained  eyes  into  his. 

"Olof,  do  not  be  harsh  with  me.  I  had  to  come — I  had 
to  ease  my  heart  of  all  that  has  weighed  it  do\vn  these  years 
past.  I  have  suffered  so.  And  when  I  see  you  now  I 
understand  you  must  have  your  own  sorrows  to  bear.  For- 
give me  all  the  cruel  things  I  said.  I  had  to  say  it  all,  that 
too,  or  I  could  not  have  told  you  anything;  I  wanted  to  cry 
the  moment  I  saw  you.  Your  wife — did  I  say  an}1;hing? 
Oh,  I  do  not  hate  her,  you  must  not  think  I  hate  her.  I 
can't  remember  what  I  said.  But  I  am  happier  now,  easier 
now  that  I  have  seen  you." 

Her  glance  strayed  from  his  face,  and  wandered  vaguely 
into  distance,  as  if  she  had  been  sitting  alone  in  the  twilight, 
dreaming. 


THE  PILGRIMAGE  235 

"Olof,"  she  said  after  a  while,  turning  to  him  -with  a  new 
hght  in  her  eyes,  "do  you  know,  a  pilgrimage  brings  healing. 
It  is  always  so  in  books — the  pilgrims  are  filled  with  hope, 
and  go  back  with  rejoicing  to  their  home.  .  .  .  Home  .  .  .!" 
She  started,  as  if  wakening  at  the  word. 

"Should  I  go  home,  I  wonder?  What  do  you  say,  Olof? 
Father  and  mother — they  would  be  waiting  for  me.  I  know 
they  would  gladly  take  me  back  again,  in  spite  of  all.  Do 
you  know,  Olof,  I  have  not  been  home  for  two  years  now. 
I  have  been  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  I  cannot  bear  to  think  .  .  .  Yes, 
I  will  go  home.  Only  let  me  sit  here  just  a  little  while,  and 
look  into  your  eyes — as  we  used  to  do.  I  will  be  stronger 
after  that." 

And  she  sat  looking  at  him.  But  Olof  stared  blankly 
before  him,  as  at  some  train  of  shado\vy  visions  passing 
before  his  eyes. 

"You  have  changed,  Olof,  since  I  saw  you  last,"  murmured 
the  woman  at  his  feet.     "Have  you  suffered?  .  .  ." 

Olof  did  not  answer.  He  pressed  his  lips  together,  and 
great  tears  gathered  anew  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  life  is  cruel!"  she  broke  out  suddenly,  and  hid  her 
face  in  his  lap  once  more. 

For  a  moment  she  lay  thus;  deep,  heavy  silence  seemed  to 
fill  the  room.     At  last  she  looked  up. 

"I  am  going  now,"  she  said.     "But,  Olof,  are  we  .  .  .?" 

She  looked  at  him,  hoping  he  would  understand. 

He  took  both  her  hands  in  his.  "Are  you  going — home?" 
he  asked  earnestly. 

"Yes,  yes.     But  tell  me — are  we  .  .  .?" 

"Yes,  yes."  He  uttered  the  words  in  a  sigh,  as  if  to  him- 
self.    Then,  pressing  her  hand,  he  rose  to  his  feet. 


236  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

Staggering  like  a  drunken  man  he  followed  her  to  the 
door,  and  stood  looking  out  after  her  as  she  went.  Then  the 
night  mist  seemed  to  rise  all  about  him,  swallowing  up  every- 
thing in  its  clammy  gloom. 


THE  RECKONING 

HE  sits  deep  in  thought.     Not  a  sound  in  the  room. 
Then  a  knocking.  .  .  . 
The  man  starts,  rises  to  his  feet,  and  stares  about 
him  with  wide  eyes,  as  if  unable  to  recognise  his  surround- 
ings.    He  glances  towards  the  door,  and  a  shudder  of  fear 
comes  over  him — are  they  coming  to  torture  him  again? 

Furiously  he  rushes  to  the  door  and  flings  it  wide.  "Come 
in,  then!"  he  cries.  "Come  in — as  many  as  you  please! 
Rags  or  finery,  sane  or  mad,  in — in!  I've  hung  my  head 
long  enough  1  Bid  them  begone — and  they  come  again — 
well,  come  in  and  have  done.  Bring  out  your  reckoning, 
every  one.  Here's  what's  left  of  me — come  and  take  your 
share!" 

But  he  calls  to  the  empty  air.  And  his  courage  fails  as 
he  looks  into  the  blank  before  him — as  a  warrior  seeking 
vainly  for  enemies  in  ambush.  Slowly  he  closes  the  door, 
and  goes  back  again. 

A  knocking.  .  .  . 

"Ghosts,  eh?  Invisible  things?  Come  in,  then — I'm 
ready." 

And  he  faces  about  once  more. 

Again  the  knocking — and  now  he  perceives  a  little  bird 
seated  outside  on  the  window-sill,  peeping  into  the  room. 

"You,  is  it?  Away — off  to  the  woods  with  you!  This  is 
no  place  for  innocent  things.     Or  what  did  you  think  to  find? 

237 


238   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

Greedy,  evil  eyes,  and  groans,  and  hearts  dripping  blood. 
To  the  woods,  and  stay  there,  out  of  reach  of  all  this  misery  1" 

But  the  bird  lifts  its  head,  and  looks  into  his  eyes. 

"Do  you  hear?     Away,  go  away!" 

He  taps  at  the  window-pane  himself.     The  bird  flies  off. 

Once  more  cold  fear  comes  over  him;  his  pulses  halt  in 
dread. 

"Not  yet — :not  yet — no!  One  by  one,  to  tear  me  slowly 
to  pieces.  Shadows  of  vengeance,  retribution,  following 
everywhere;  burning  eyes  glaring  at  me  from  behind,  fear 
that  makes  me  tremble  at  every  sound,  and  start  in  dread  at 
every  stranger's  face.  And  if  I  forget  for  a  moment,  and 
think  myself  free,  one  of  them  comes  again  .  .  .  ghosts, 
ghosts  ..." 

He  sat  down  heavily. 

"Why  do  they  follow  me  still?  Is  it  not  enough  that  I 
have  lived  like  a  hunted  beast  so  long?  Because  I  loved 
you  once?  And  what  did  we  swear  to  each  other  then — 
have  you  forgotten?  Never  to  think  of  each  other  but  with 
thankfulness  for  what  each  had  given!  We  were  rich,  and 
poured  out  gold  with  open  hands — why  do  you  come  as 
beggars  now?  And  talk  of  poverty — as  if  I  were  not  poorer 
than  any  of  you  all!  Or  do  you  come  to  mourn,  to  weep 
with  me  over  all  that  we  have  lost? 

"But  still  you  come  and  ask,  and  ask,  as  if  I  were  your 
debtor,  and  would  not  pay.  Mad  thought!  I  was  your 
poet,  and  made  you  songs  of  love.  Life  was  a  poem,  and 
love  red  flowers  between.  What  use  to  tell  me  now  that  the 
poem  was  a  promise,  the  red  flowers  figures  on  a  score  that 
I  must  pay?     Go,  and  leave  me  in  peace!     I  cannot  payl 


THE  RECKONING  239 

You  know — }^ou  know  I  have  pawned  all  I  had  long  since — 
all,  to  the  last  wrack  1" 

His  own  thought  filled  him  with  new  horror;  drops  of 
sweat  stood  out  on  his  forehead. 

"And  you,  that  have  suffered  most  of  all — what  had  I 
left  for  you?  You,  a  princess  among  the  rest,  the  only  one 
that  never  looked  up  to  me  humbly,  but  stepped  bravely  to 
meet  me  as  an  equal.  Yours  was  the  hardest  lot  of  all — for 
I  gave  you  the  dregs  of  my  life,  rags  that  a  beggar  would 
despise.  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  he  felt  an  inward  shock;  his  heart  seemed  to 
check  for  a  moment,  then  went  on  beating  violently;  tlie 
blood  rushed  to  his  head.  Again  the  check,  followed  by  the 
same  racing  heart-beat  as  before.  .  .  . 

Instinctively  he  grasped  his  wrist  to  feel  his  pulse.  A 
few  quick  beats,  a  pause,  then  on  again — what  is  it? 

The  fear  of  death  was  on  him  now,  and  he  sprang  up  as 
if  thinking  of  flight.  Gradually  the  fit  passes  off;  he  stands 
waiting,  but  it  does  not  return,  only  a  strange  feeling  of 
helplessness  remains — helplessness  and  physical  fear.  He 
sits  do\vn  again. 

"Was  that  you.  Life,  that  struck  so  heavy  a  blow?  Have 
you  come  for  your  reckoning,  too?  Like  an  innkeeper,  noting 
this  and  that  upon  the  score,  and  calling  for  payment  at  last? 
I  should  know  you  by  now — I  have  seen  a  glimpse  of  your 
face  before.  .  .  . 

"  Tis  a  heavy  book  you  bring.  Well,  what  shall  we  take 
first?  That?  Yes,  of  course — it  was  always  the  heaviest 
item  with  us.  My  father  .  .  .  what  was  it  mother  told  of 
him?     And  his  father  before  him.  .  .  . 

"Look  back,  you  say?     Back  along  the  tracks  I  made  long 


240  SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

ago?  Good — I  look;  you  go  about  your  business  in  the 
proper  way,  I  see.  If  you  had  come  with  sermons,  and  talked 
of  sin  and  heaven  and  hell,  I'd  leave  you  to  preach  alone — 
none  of  that  for  me.  I  know  .  .  .  that  love  is  in  our  flesh 
and  blood,  drawing  us  like  a  magnet — in  our  day,  none  draws 
back  a  single  step  of  his  way  for  the  fear  of  sin  and  hell — 
there  is  always  time  to  repent  and  be  forgiven  later  on !  But 
your  book  shows  our  acts  on  this  side,  and  what  comes  of 
them  on  that — and  we  stand  with  bowed  heads,  seeing  how 
all  is  written  in  our  own  blood." 

He  stared  before  him,  as  if  at  something  tangible  and  real. 

"Yes,  there's  the  book,  and  there  is  my  account.  All  these 
strokes  and  lines — what's  that?  Something  I  can't  make 
out.  Here's  my  road,  there  are  my  doings — that  I  under- 
stand. And  here  are  all  that  I've  had  dealings  with.  But 
this  mess  of  broken  lines  .  .  .  this  way  and  that  .  .  .  ?  Ah, 
consequences!  Is  that  it?  Well,  well.  .  .  .  All  these  run 
together  at  one  point — that's  clear  enough — myself,  of  course. 
But  these  others  running  out  all  ways,  endlessly.  .  .  .  What's 
that  you  say  ?     More  consequences,  but  to  others ! 

"No,  no!  Not  all  that!  Something  of  the  sort  I  was 
prepared  for — but  all  that?  Is  it  always  so  in  your  book — 
is  ever}1;hing  set  down?" 

"All  that  leaves  any  trace  behind — all  acts  that  make  for 
any  consequence!" 

"All?  But  man  is  a  free  agent — this  does  not  look  like 
freedom." 

"Free  to  act,  yes,  but  every  act  knits  the  fine  threads  of 
consequence — ^that  can  decide  the  fate  of  a  life!" 

"No — no!  Close  the  book — I  have  seen  enough!  Who 
cares  to  think  of  a  book  with  lines  and  threads  of  consequence, 


THE  RECKONING  241 

when  fate. is  kind,  and  all  seems  easy  going?  I  laughed 
at  those  who  wasted  their  youth  in  prayer  and  fasting.  And 
I  laughed  at  the  laws  of  life,  for  I  could  take  Love,  and  enjoy 
it  without  fear  of  any  tie — I  was  proud  to  feel  myself  free, 
to  know  that  none  had  any  claim  on  me — no  child  could  call 
me  father.  But  now,  after  many  years,  come  those  who  speak 
of  ties  I  never  dreamed  of.  Here  was  a  mother  showing  me 
a  child — I  had  never  touched  her  that  way,  yet  you  come  and 
tell  me  there  are  laws  I  know  nothing  of.  And  when  I  beg 
and  pray  of  you  to  grant  me  a  child  for  myself  and  for  her 
to  whom  it  is  life  and  death,  you  turn  your  back,  and  cry 
scornfully:  'Laugh,  and  take  Love,  and  enjoy — you  have 
had  your  will!'  " 

Again  the  terrifying  sense  of  physical  distress — of  some- 
thing amiss  \vith  heart  and  pulse.  He  sat  waiting  for  a 
new  shock,  wondering  if,  perhaps,  it  would  be  the  last  .  .  . 
the  end.  .  .  . 

The  door  opened. 

"Olof !  Here  I  am  at  last — am  I  very  late?  .  .  .  Why, 
what  is  the  matter?  .  .  .     Olof  .  .  .!" 

Kyllikki  hurried  over  to  him.  With  an  effort  he  pulled 
himself  together,  and  answered  calmly,  with  a  smile: 

"Don't  get  so  excited — you  frightened  me!  It's  nothing 
.  .  .  nothing.  ...  I  felt  a  little  giddy  for  the  moment, 
that  was  all.  I've  had  it  before — it's  nothing  to  worry  about. 
Pass  off  in  a  minute.  .  .  ." 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly.     "Olof  .  .  .?" 

"Honestly,  it  is  nothing." 

"It  must  be  something  to  make  you  look  like  that.  Olof, 
what  is  it?  I  have  noticed  it  before — though  you  always 
tried  to  pass  it  off.  .  .  ." 


242   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"Well,  and  if  it  is,"  he  answered  impatiently,  "it  need  not 
worry  you." 

"Olof,  can  you  say  that  of  anything  between  us  two?" 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "Why  not,"  he  said  at  last, 
"if  it  is  something  that  could  only  add  needlessly  to  the 
other's  burden?" 

"Then  more  than  ever,"  answered  Kyllikki  warmly. 

She  hurried  into  the  next  room  and  returned  with  a 
coverlet. 

"You  are  tired  out,  Olof — lie  down  and  rest."  With 
tender  firmness  she  forced  him  to  lie  down,  and  spread  it 
over  him. 

"And  now  tell  me  all  about  it — it's  no  good  trying  to 
put  it  off  with  me.  You  know  what  I  am."  She  sat  down 
beside  him  and  stroked  his  forehead  tenderly. 

Olof  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  decided.  He 
would  tell  her  all. 

"Yes — I  know  you,"  he  said  softly,  taking  her  hand  in  his. 

It  was  growing  dark  when  they  sat  up.  Both  were  pale 
and  shaken  with  emotion,  but  they  looked  at  each  other  with 
a  new  light  in  their  eyes,  two  human  souls  drawn  closer 
together  by  hardship  and  sorrow. 

"Stay  where  you  are  and  rest  a  little,  while  I  get  the 
supper,"  said  Kyllikki,  as  Olof  would  have  risen.  "And  to- 
morrow— we  can  begin  the  new  day,"  she  added. 

And,  stooping  down,  she  kissed  him  lightly  on  the  brow. 


WAITING 

"The  Empty  House,  6/9/1900. 

YOUR  letter  has  just  come — Kyllikki,  you  cannot 
think  how  I  have  been  longing  for  it.  I  would 
have  sent  the  girl  to  the  station,  only  I  knew  you 
would  not  write  till  it  was  post  day  here. 

"And  you  are  well — that  is  the  main  thing;  the  only  thing 
I  care  about  these  days.  'Strong  enough  to  move  mountains' 
— I  can't  say  the  same  about  myself.  I  have  been  having  a 
miserable  time.  I  am  sorry  I  let  you  go — or,  rather,  that  I 
sent  you.  I  thought  I  should  feel  less  anxious  about  you  if 
you  were  there,  but  far  from  it.  Why  couldn't  we  have  let 
it  take  place  here?  I  am  only  now  beginning  to  understand 
how  completely  we  have  grown  together — I  feel  altogether 
helpless  without  you.  If  only  it  would  come — and  have  it 
over,  and  you  could  be  home  again — you  and  the  boy ! 

"And  then  I  have  something  to  tell  you  that  I  would  rather 
not  touch  on  at  all,  but  we  must  have  no  secrets  from  each 
other  now,  not  even  a  thought!  It  is  the  old  uneasiness — it 
has  been  coming  over  me  ever  since  you  went  away — as  if 
I  could  not  find  rest  when  you  are  not  near.  I  cannot  get 
away  from  a  feeling  that  all  is  not  over  yet — that  things  are 
only  waiting  for  a  favourable  moment  to  break  loose  again. 
Try  to  understand  me.  You  know  how  I  suffered  those  two 
years  when  we  prayed  in  vain  for  thaf  which  is  granted  to 

243 


244   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

the  poorest.  And  you  know  how  I  was  almost  beyond  my- 
self with  joy  when  at  last  our  prayers  were  heard.  But  now, 
when  it  is  only  a  matter  of  days  before  it  comes  in  reality — 
now,  I  am  all  overcome  with  dread.  It  will  go  off  all  right, 
the  thing  itself,  I  know — you  are  strong  and  healthy  enough. 
But  there  is  an  avenging  God,  an  invisible  hand,  that  writes 
its  mene  tekel  at  the  very  hour  when  joy  is  at  its  height. 
Think,  if  the  one  we  are  waiting  for — it  is  horrible  to  think 
of! — if  it  should  be  wrong  somehow,  in  body  or  soul — what 
could  I  do  then  ?  Nothing,  only  bow  my  head  and  acknowl- 
edge that  the  arm  of  fate  had  reached  me  at  last.  You 
cannot  think  what  a  dreadful  time  I  had  all  alone  here  last 
evening.  I  cried  and  prayed  that  vengeance  might  not  fall 
on  you  and  him — the  innocent — but  on  me  alone — if  all  I 
have  suffered  up  to  now  is  not  enough.  And  then  a  wood- 
pecker came  and  sat  outside  under  the  window,  with  its  eerie 
tapping.  And  a  little  after  came  a  magpie  croaking  on  the 
roof,  like  a  chuckling  fiend.  It  made  me  shudder  all  over. 
I  dare  say  you  will  laugh  at  my  weakness.  But  it  might  be 
one  of  those  mysterious  threads  of  fate.  I  have  seen  the  like 
before — and  you  know  how  ill  and  nervous  I  was  ...  at  the 
time.  .  .  .  Now  I  have  read  your  letter  I  feel  calmer,  but 
I  know  I  shall  not  get  over  it  altogether  till  I  have  seen  him 
with  my  own  eyes.  Forgive  me  for  writing  about  this,  but 
I  had  to  tell  you.     And  I  know  it  will  not  hurt  you. 

"But  then  I  have  been  happy  as  well.  I  have  been  getting 
everything  ready  in  your  room — yours  and  hisl  You  will 
see  it  all  when  you  come,  but  I  must  tell  you  a  little  about 
it  now.  I  have  put  down  cork  matting  all  over  the  floor,  to 
keep  out  the  draught.  But  when  I  had  done  it  I  had  a 
sort  of  guilty  feeling.     Only  a  bit  of  matting — ^nothing  much, 


WAITING  246 

after  all — but  it  came  into  my  mind  that  many  children  have 
to  run  about  on  bare  floors  where  the  cold  can  nip  their  feet 
through  the  cracks.  And  I  felt  almost  as  if  I  ought  to  pull 
it  all  up  again.  But,  after  all,  it  was  for  him — and  what 
could  be  too  good  for  him!  I  would  lay  it  double  in  his 
room! 

"I  have  some  good  news  for  you.  The  Perakorpi  road  is 
already  begun.  And  then  some  bad  news — ^the  drainage 
business  looks  like  being  given  up  altogether — just  when 
everything  was  ready,  and  we  were  going  to  start.  Just 
quarrelling  and  jealousy  among  the  people  round — real 
peasant  obstinacy,  and  of  course  with  Tapola  Antti  at  the 
head.  A  miserable  lot!  I  should  like  to  knock  some  of 
them  down.  I  have  fought  as  hard  as  I  could  for  it,  thunder- 
ing like  Moses  at  Sinai,  and  sacrificing  the  golden  calf.  The 
thing  must  go  through  at  any  cost.  If  they  will  not  back 
me  up  then  I  will  start  the  work  alone.  And  there  are  not 
many  of  them,  anyway — we  are  to  have  a  meeting  again  to- 
morrow. 

"And  then,  when  you  come  home,  I  can  set  to  work  in 
earnest.  If  only  he  may  turn  out  as  I  hope — then  perhaps 
one  day  we  might  work  on  it  together.  I  wish  I  had  wings — 
then  I  should  not  need  to  sit  sweating  over  this  wretched 
paper ! 

"Keep  well  and  strong,  and  may  all  good  angels  watch 
over  you  both! — Your  impatient  .  .  . 

"Write  soon — at  once!" 

"8  September   1900. 

"Dear, — Your  letter  was  like  a  beating  of  your  own  heart. 
Yourself  in  every  word — and  it  showed  me  a  side  of  your 
nature  that  I  care  for  more  than  I  can  tell. 


246    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"You  are  anxious — but  there  is  nothing  to  be  anxious 
about.  How  could  there  ever  be  anything  wrong  with  our 
child — in  body  or  soul?  Of  course  we  must  expect  more 
troubles  yet — but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  child!  I 
know  you  were  in  low  spirits  then,  but  body  and  soul  were 
sound  enough.  And  I  feel  so  well  and  strong  and  happy 
now  myself  that  it  must  be  passed  on  to  him — even  if  he 
were  a  stone!  And  then  I  am  all  overflowing  with  love  for 
you  and  confidence  in  the  future.  And  I  shall  feed  him  with 
it  too,  and  then  he  will  be  the  same.  All  that  about  the 
magpie  and  the  woodpecker — you  read  it  wrongly,  that  is  all. 
The  magpie  simply  came  to  give  you  my  love — poor  thing, 
she  can't  help  having  an  ugly  voice!  And  then  the  wood- 
pecker— don't  you  see,  it  was  just  pecking  out  the  worms  from 
the  timber — there  must  be  no  worm-eaten  timber  in  his  home  1 
That's  what  it  meant. 

"But  I  am  glad  you  wrote  about  it  all  the  same.  For  it 
showed  me  that  he  will  be  as  we  hope.  Now  I  understand 
how  terribly  you  must  have  suffered  these  last  years.  You'd 
never  make  a  criminal,  Olof ;  even  I,  a  woman,  could  commit 
a  crime  with  colder  courage.  Oh,  but  I  love  you  for  it! 
And  you  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to  think  my  child's 
father  is  like  that.  A  wakeful,  tender  conscience — that  is 
the  best  thing  you  can  give  him,  though  you  give  him  so 
much. 

"I  know  it  will  be  a  boy — and  I  can  feel  in  my  blood  that 
he  will  be  just  the  son  to  work  with  his  father  as  you  said. 

"And  then  about  his  room — you  take  my  breath  away!  I 
can  see  you  are  making  preparations  as  if  for  a  queen  and  an 
heir  to  the  throne.     I  ought  to  tell  you  to  undo  it  all  again; 


WAITING  247 

but  who  could  ever  tell  anyone  to  undo  what  was  done  in 
love — for  it  was  for  love  you  did  it,  not  for  show. 

"So  you  are  already  fighting  for  your  draining  project; 
it  is  just  as  well,  it  will  be  worth  the  more.  Anyhow,  I 
know  you  will  win.  Fight  as  hard  as  you  like,  fight  for  me 
and  for  him.  It  is  only  a  pity  he  can't  set  to  work  at  once 
and  help  you. 

"We  too  are  longing  to  be  home  again.  And  perhaps  it 
will  not  be  so  long  now.  But  if  it  has  to  be,  I  can  be 
patient  as  long  as  I  must.  We  are  better  than  ever  now. 
Do  you  know,  I  am  so  happy  these  days  I  have  taken  to 
singing,  just  as  I  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  girl.  What  do 
you  say  to  that?  Suppose  he  were  to  have  a  voice,  and  sing 
in  the  choir,  and  leave  you  to  work  at  your  drainage  all  by 
yourself! 

"My  love,  my  love,  I  kiss  you  right  in  your  heart.  The 
warmest  love  from  us  both — I  know  you  will  be  writing  to 
us  soon. 

"Kyllikki  (waiting  to  be  a  mother)." 

"His  Birthplace,   loth  Sept.,   ii   a.  m. 

"Father! — Yes,  that  is  what  you  are  now.  I  can  see 
your  eyes  light  up.  And  a  son,  of  course.  At  six  o'clock 
this  morning.  All  well,  both  going  on  finely;  he  is  simply 
a  picture  of  health,  big  and  strong  and  full  of  life.  And 
such  a  voice!  If  you  want  a  man  to  shout  out  orders  to  the 
workmen  ...  I  haven't  looked  at  him  properly  yet.  He  is 
lying  here  just  beside  me;  I  can  see  his  hand  sticking  out 
between  the  clothes.  A  fine  little  hand,  not  just  fat  and  soft 
and  flabby,  but  big  and  strong — his  father's  hand.  The  very 
hand  to  drain  a  marsh,  you  wait  and  see.     And  his  soul — ah, 


248    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

you  should  see  his  eyes !  His  father's  eyes.  Now  they  won't 
let  me  write  any  more.  I  will  tell  you  more  next  time.  I 
have  sent  him  a  kiss  with  my  eyes,  from  you — and  there  is  a 
kiss  for  you  in  my  thoughts. 

"Kyllikki  (the  happy  mother)." 


THE  HOMECOMING 

THE  autumn  sun  was  setting;  it  smiled  upon  the 
meadows,  gleamed  in  the  window-panes,  and  threw 
a  kindly  glow  upon  the  distant  forest.  The  air 
was  cool. 

Olof  was  in  a  strange  mood  to-day.  He  walked  with  light, 
springy  step,  and  could  not  keep  still  for  a  moment;  he  was 
uneasy,  and  yet  glad.  He  had  sent  a  man  to  the  station 
with  a  horse,  and  the  little  servant-maid  had  been  dispatched 
on  an  errand  to  a  distant  village — he  \vished  to  be  alone. 

He  stepped  hastily  into  the  bedroom,  gave  a  searching 
glance  round,  looked  at  the  thermometer  on  the  wall,  and 
laughed. 

"Aha — beginning  to  look  all  right  now." 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  sitting-room.  The  cxDffee-pot 
was  simmering  its  quiet,  cheerful  song  on  the  fire;  close  by 
lay  a  goodly  heap  of  white  pine  logs. 

He  lifted  the  pot  from  the  fire,  poured  out  a  little  of  the 
coffee  in  a  cup,  and  poured  it  back  again.  Then,  thrusting 
his  hands  into  his  pockets,  he  walked  up  and  down,  smiling 
and  whistling  to  himself. 

"Wonder  what  she  will  think,  when  I  don't  come  to  the 
station  to  meet  her  there?  But  she'll  understand  .  .  . 
yes.  .  .  ." 

He  went  back  to  the  fire,  poured  out  another  half-cup  of 

coffee,  and  tasted  it. 

249 


250   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

"H'm — yes.     It's  good,  I  think  it's  good." 

He  took  a  bit  of  rag,  wiped  the  pot  carefully,  and  set  it 
back.     Then  he  looked  at  the  clock. 

"They  ought  to  be  at  Aittamaki  by  now — or  Siraola  at 
least.  .  .  ." 

He  stepped  across  to  the  cupboard,  took  out  a  white  cloth 
and  spread  it  on  a  tray,  set  out  cups  and  saucers,  cream  jug 
and  sugar  bowl,  and  placed  the  tray  on  the  table. 

"There— that  looks  all  right!" 

Again  he  glanced  impatiently  at  the  clock. 

"They'll  be  at  the  cross-roads  now,  at  Vaarakorva  .  .  . 
might  take  that  little  stretch  at  a  trot  ...  if  only  they  don't 
drive  too  hard.     Well,  Kyllikki  '11  look  to  that  herself  .  .  ." 

Again  he  felt  that  curious  sense  of  lightness — as  if  all 
that  weighed  and  burdened  had  melted  away,  leaving  only 
a  thin,  slight  shell,  that  would  hardly  keep  to  earth  at  all. 
He  tramped  up  and  down,  looking  out  of  the  window  every 
moment,  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  himself. 

"Now!"  he  cried,  looking  at  the  clock  again.  "Ten  min- 
utes more  and  they  should  be  here!" 

He  sprang  to  the  fire  and  threw  on  an  armful  of  fine  dry 
wood. 

"There!  Now  blaze  up  as  hard  as  you  like.  Bright  eyes 
and  a  warm  heart  to  greet  them!" 

He  went  into  the  bedroom  and  brought  out  a  tiny  basket- 
work  cradle,  that  he  had  made  himself.  The  bedding  was 
ready  prepared,  white  sheets  hung  down  over  the  side,  and 
a  red-patterned  rug  smiled  warmly — at  the  head  a  soft  pillow 
in  a  snow-white  case. 

"There!"     He  set  the  cradle  before  the  fire,  and  drew  up 


THE  HOMECOMING  251 

the  sofa  close  by.  "He  can  lie  there  and  we  can  sit  here  and 
look  at  him." 

And  now  that  all  was  ready,  a  dizziness  of  joy  came  over 
him — it  seemed  too  good  to  be  true.  He  looked  out  through 
the  window  once  more;  went  out  on  to  the  steps  and  gazed 
down  the  road.  Looked  and  listened,  came  back  into  the 
room,  and  was  on  the  point  of  starting  out  to  meet  them,  but 
thought  of  the  fire — no,  he  could  not  leave  the  house. 

At  last — the  brown  figure  of  a  horse  showed  out  from 
behind  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road.  x\nd  at  the  sight 
his  heart  throbbed  so  violently  that  he  could  not  move  a 
step;  he  stood  there,  looking  out  through  the  window — at  the 
horse  and  cart,  at  Kyllikki  with  her  white  kerchief,  and  at 
the  bundle  in  her  arms. 

Now  they  were  at  the  gate.  Olof  ran  out  bareheaded, 
dashing  down  the  path. 

"Welcome!"  he  shouted  as  he  ran,    . 

"Olof!"  Kyllikki 's  voice  was  soft  as  ever,  and  her  eyes 
gleamed  tenderly. 

"Give  him  to  me!"  cried  Olof,  stretching  out  his  arras 
impatiently. 

And  Kyllikki  smiled  and  handed  him  a  tiny  bundle 
wrapped  in  woollen  rugs. 

Olof's  hands  trembled  as  he  felt  the  weight  of  it  in  his 
arms. 

"Help  her  down,  Antti;  and  come  back  a  little  later  on— ^ 
I  won't  ask  you  in — not  just  now,"  he  said  confusedly  to 
the  driver. 

The  man  laughed,  and  Kyllikki  joined  in. 

But  Olof  took  no  heed — he  was  already  on  the  way  in 
with  his  burden.     A  few  steps  up  the  path  he  stopped,  and 


262   SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

lifted  a  corner  of  the  wrappings  with  one  hand.  A  tiny 
reddish  face  with  two  bright  eyes  looked  up  at  him. 

A  tremor  of  delight  thrilled  him  at  the  sight;  he  clasped 
the  bundle  closer  to  his  breast,  as  if  fearing  to  lose  it. 
Hastily  he  covered  up  the  little  face  once  more,  and  hurried 
in. 

Kyllikki  watched  him  with  beaming  eyes.  Following  after, 
she  stood  in  the  doorway  and  looked  round,  with  a  little  cry 
of  surprise  and  pleasure,  taking  it  all  in  at  a  glance — the 
genial  welcome  of  the  blazing  fire,  the  tiny  bed, — he  had 
told  her  nothing  of  this, — the  sofa  close  by,  and  the  tray  set 
out  on  the  table,  and  coffee  standing  ready.  .  .  . 

But  Olof  was  bending  over  the  cradle. 

"These  things — is  it  safe  to  undo  them?"  he  asked, 
fumbling  with  safety-pins. 

"Yes,  that's  all  right,"  laughed  Kyllikki,  loosening  her 
own  cloak. 

Olof  had  taken  off  the  outer  wrappings.  He  lifted  the 
little  arms,  held  the  boy  upright,  looking  at  him  critically, 
like  a  doctor  examining  recruits.  "Long  in  the  limbs — and 
sound  enough,  by  the  look  of  him!"  Then  he  gazed  earnest- 
ly into  the  child's  face,  with  its  wise,  bright  eyes,  and  seemed 
to  find  something  there  that  promised  well  for  the  future. 

"Dear  little  rascal!"  he  cried  ecstatically,  and  tenderly  he 
kissed  the  child's  forehead.  The  boy  made  no  sound,  but 
seemed  to  be  observing  the  pair. 

Olof  laid  him  down  in  the  cradle.  "Can't  he  say  any- 
thing?    Can't  you  laugh,  little  son?" 

He  blinked  his  eyes,  smacked  his  lips,  and  uttered  a  little 
whistling  sound  as  if  calling  some  shy  bird — he  had  never 
seen  anything  like  it;  it  seemed  to  come  of  itself. 


THE  HOMECOMING  253 

"Laughing — he's  laughing  .  .  .  that's  the  way!" 

Kyllikki  was  standing  behind  him,  leaning  against  the 
sofa,  watching  them  both. 

"And  his  hands!  Sturdy  hands  to  drain  a  marsh!  So 
mother  was  right,  was  she?  Ey,  such  a  little  fist!  A  real 
marsh-mole!"     And  he  kissed  the  tiny  hands  delightedly. 

"But  look  at  his  nails — they  want  cutting  already.  Ah, 
yes,  mother  knew  father  would  like  to  do  it  himself,  so  she 
did." 

And  he  hurried  to  Kyllikki's  work-basket,  and  took  out  a 
small  pair  of  scissors.     "Father'll  manage  it — come!" 

And  he  fell  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed. 

"Don't  be  afraid — softly,  softly — there!  Father's  hands 
are  none  so  hard,  for  all  he's  so  big."  He  cut  the  nails, 
kissing  the  little  fingers  in  between. 

The  boy  laughed.  Kyllikki  leaned  over  towards  them, 
smiling  more  warmly  still. 

"There — now  it's  done!  Look  at  him,  Kyllikki!  Isn't 
he  splendid?"  And  he  turned  towards  her.  "But  what — 
what  am  I  thinking  of  all  the  time!  Kyllikki,  I  haven't 
even  kissed  you  yet.  Welcome,  dear,  welcome  a  thousand 
times!" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms.  "How  well  you  look — and 
lovely!  Why,  you  look  younger  than  ever!  Little  mother 
— ^how  shall  I  ever  thank  you  for — this!" 

"It  was  your  gift  to  me,"  said  Kyllikki  softly,  with  a 
tender  glance  at  the  little  bed. 

Olof  led  her  to  a  seat,  and  they  talked  together  in  the 
silent  speech  of  the  eyes  that  is  for  great  moments  only. 

"Why  .  .  . !"     Olof  sprang  up  suddenly.     "I'm  forgetting 


254    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD-RED  FLOWER 

everything  to-day.  Here  I've  made  coffee  all  ready,  and 
now  .  .  ." 

He  lifted  the  coffee-pot  and  set  it  on  the  tray. 

"Did  you  make  the  coffee?"  asked  Kyllikki,  smiling  in 
wonder. 

"And  who  else  should  do  it  on  such  a  day?     Herel" 

And  they  sat  down  to  table,  without  a  word. 

Presently  the  child  began  to  whimper.  Both  rose  to  their 
feet. 

"What's  the  matter,  then— did  it  hurt?"  said  Kyllikki 
tenderly.  She  lifted  the  little  one  in  her  arms,  and  began 
talking  to  him  with  her  eyes,  and  smiling,  with  delicious 
little  movements  of  her  head. 

The  child  began  to  laugh. 

Without  a  word  she  laid  him  in  Olof's  arms.  He  thanked 
her  with  a  look,  and  held  the  boy  close  to  his  breast.  All 
else  seemed  to  have  vanished  but  this  one  thing.  And  he 
felt  the  warmth  of  the  little  body  gradually  spreading  through 
clothes  and  wrappings  to  his  own  ...  it  was  like  a  gentle, 
soft  caress.  It  thrilled  him — and  the  arms  that  held  the 
little  burden  trembled;  he  could  not  speak,  but  handed  it 
back  in  silence  to  the  mother. 

She  laid  it  in  the  cradle,  set  the  pillow  aright,  and  pulled 
up  the  coverlet,  leaving  only  a  little  face  showing  above. 

"It  is  a  great  trust,  to  be  given  such  a  little  life  to  care 
for,"  said  Olof,  with  a  quiver  in  his  voice,  as  they  sat  down 
on  the  sofa.  "It  seems  too  great  a  thing  to  be  possible, 
somehow." 

"But  it  is,"  said  Kyllikki.     "And  do  you  know  what  I 


THE  HOMECOMING  255 

think?  That  forgiveness  is  a  greater  thing  than  punishment 
— and  Life  knows  it!" 

He  nodded,  and  pressed  her  hand. 

Again  he  glanced  at  the  little  red  face  on  the  pillow,  and 
an  expression  of  earnestness,  almost  of  gloom,  came  over  his 
own. 

"Olof,"  said  Kyllikki  softly,  taking  his  hand,  "will  you 
tell  me  what  you  are  thinking  of  just  now  ?" 

He  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"No,  no — you  need  not  tell  me.  I  know.  But  why  think 
of  that  now,  Olof  ?  And  you  know — he  at  least  has  a  father 
and  mother  who  have  learned  something  of  life;  maybe  he 
will  not  need  to  go  through  all  we  have  done  to  get  so 
far.  .  .  ." 

"Ay,  that  was  what  I  was  thinking,"  said  Olof. 

And  no  more  was  said,  but  heartfelt  wishes  hovered  pro- 
tectingly  about  the  little  bed. 

"Look  now!"  cried  Kyllikki,  after  a  while.  "He's  fallen 
asleep!     Isn't  he   lovely?" 

And  warm  sunshine  seemed  to  fill  the  room — even  to  its 
darkest  corner. 

"Olof?"  said  Kyllikki,  with  a  questioning  glance  towards 
the  door  of  the  adjoining  room. 

His  face  lit  up,  and  together  they  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the 
door;  Olof  opened  it,  and  Kyllikki  stood  on  the  threshold, 
looking  into  the  little  room — it  was  newly  papered,  and 
looked  larger  and  brighter  than  before. 

She  turned  and  took  his  hand — her  eyes  told  him  all  she 
thought  and  felt. 


266    SONG  OF  THE  BLOOD  UKD  FLOWER 

Ht'  put  liis  arm  round  her  waist,  and  his  eyes  lit  with  a 
sudden  gkam  of  recollection. 

"I  told  you  once,"  he  said  dreamily,  as  they  walked  back 
into  the  sitting-room,  "how  sister  Maya  came  to  call  me 
home,  when  I  was  still  wandering  about  from  place  to  place." 

"Yes,  I  remember;  it  was  so  beautiful,  Olof — I  shall  never 
forget." 

"And  how  we  came  home  after,  and  began  .  .  ." 

They  had  reached  the  window  now.  "Look  I"  said  Olof 
suddenly,  pointing  out. 

Down  in  the  valley  lay  the  marsh  of  Isosuo,  spreading 
away  almost  immeasurably  on  every  side.  At  the  edge  of 
the  water  two  big  channels  were  being  cut,  in  front  were  a 
host  of  workmen  clearing  timber,  while  others  behind  them 
dug  the  channels  in  the  soil.  It  was  like  the  march  of  two 
great  armies  towards  the  land  of  the  future.  The  setting 
sun  cast  its  red  glow  over  the  powerful  shoulders  of  the  men 
as  they  worked,  here  and  there  a  spade  or  an  axe  flashed  for 
a  moment;  tlie  water  in  the  dykes  glittered  like  silver,  and 
the  moist  earth  at  the  edge  shone  with  a  metallic  gleam. 

"Ah!"  cried  Kyllikki  joyfully.     "The  work  has  begun!" 

Olof  turned  her  gently  from  the  window  tow-ards  him,  put 
his  arms  round  her,  and  looked  into  her  eyes,  as  if  trjing  to 
sum  up  in  a  single  glance  all  they  had  seen  and  suffered, 
lived  through  and  hoped. 

"Yes,  the  work  has  begun,"  he  said  softly,  and  held  her 
closer  to  his  breast. 


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